


Where My Thought's Escaping

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Home [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A+ Parenting, ALL the issues, Abandonment Issues, Angst, Break Up, F/M, Inadvisable relationship decisions, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Really this one isn't very cheerful, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: Castiel needs to learn how to human, to acclimatise to college and deal with at least some of his outstanding issues.He has never been very good at establishing what Dean needs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And... we're back! Considering I have a good 40k of various points of the follow ups written, this chapter took some work to get it to flow as I wanted to. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am generally against the swapping of perspectives within a story, but after a great deal of thought this seemed like the best way to do the thing. Hopefully it won't be too jarring and will make sense. If it doesn't, please let me know and I'll see if there's any way I can think of to fix it (I don't think there will be, but I can try)>
> 
> The title comes from Simon& Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound' and we will be taking off approximately half an hour after we left things...

“You wanna talk about _that_ whole shit show?” Gabriel asks, leaning forward from the back seat. Castiel ignores him in favor of easing up on the gas to fall back in line with the speed limit, just far enough into the journey that his coffee is cold. “Cassie,” Gabriel says, kicking the back of his seat, “Sharing is caring. Feeling your feelings is healing.”

“Gabriel,” Hester warns.

“Gotta share your break up with those who share your genetic makeup,” 

“Gabriel, _shut up_ ,” Hester cuts across, then turns the radio up high enough to drown his cousin out.

Castiel was supposed to go to Harvard University. He was supposed to split this journey with his father, who would have already picked out his classes already and would deliver another sober speech about exactly how he should live and what was expected of him for the course of journey. It would have been the first time he had spent time with those his own age for a very long time. They would have stopped at pre-planned intervals, not motels, and his father would have pre-selected him an off campus apartment. There would be no pastries, obscure flavoured nuts or road trip music; Gabriel would not be persistently kicking the back of his chair or asking about his feelings. 

He is not supposed to be undertaking this journey, to _Yale_ , with his Aunt Hester and his insufferably irritating cousin, both of whom he hadn’t seen for several years this time last year. He is not supposed to _feel_ like his soul is splintering with the sound of Dean’s ‘drive safe’ ringing round the back of his head. Most pertinently, he’s not supposed to acknowledge that he has deep, unavoidable feelings about any of it at all.

Regardless, the journey is undoubtedly more enjoyable than any he can envision with his father.

*

_Adina is a college student who picked up a few hours of tutoring AP English to a weird homeschooled kid in order to supplement her desire to go out on nice dates with her senior-year boyfriend and to top up her alcohol budget; she told Castiel this on the second week of her turning up from five till seven to discuss literature as a way to break the ice, which is one of the reasons Castiel picks her to deliver the news to. Although she often seems bored while she sits in the room designated for Castiel’s study, there are moments where she makes more of an effort to connect with him than any of the other tutors his father has bought in to teach him the subjects that he, himself, couldn’t be bothered with. She seems more alive. She seems _more real_ than some of the others. _

_She’s typing on her cell phone, presumably to her boyfriend, when Castiel sets down his pen and says; “I think my father left.”_

_She looks up at him, slowly._

_“What?”_

_Castiel had been collecting information for the last few days and by this point he is quite certain. He was supposed to have four hours of physics, math and chemistry last Thursday, but his father hadn’t shown up. He’d been disappointed, because his father’s love of science was contagious and bought him alive enough that Castiel felt he was learning about his father at the same time, like with each equation his father came clearer into view, like if he conquered enough physics he might begin to understand him. He tried to read over the material that his father had prepared for him instead, but without his father narrating it it was difficult to engage._

_The weekend came and went and he still hadn’t seen him, so then he checked his bedroom, then his office, then the drawer in the kitchen where he kept the emergency cash, a growing sense of dread pooling in his gut._

_And then he checked the safe where he kept his passport._

_“I haven’t seen him for a week,” Castiel says, looking at his literature essay, where the words are swimming a little on the page. “There’s no food.”_

_“Are you,” Adina says, blinking at him, “Are you fucking serious?”_

_“I think he’s coming back,” Castiel says, hand steady on his book, not meeting her eye, because he is sure of that. His father, distant and difficult as he may be, has not invested so much of his time and money and effort in Castiel, just to disappear. He is _coming back_ , he’s just not here right now. Something came up. Something must have happened. “But the lack of food is an issue.”_

_“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” Adina says, gaping at him for another few seconds before she picks up her phone and calls the police because she doesn’t know what else to do. She orders them both pizza as they wait for the police officer and the social worker to show up, which they eat sat on the floor of his father’s empty office because the pizza arrives first. He sits and eats tasteless slices of pepperoni pizza with his back to the wall, staring up at the ceiling feeling deliciously empty. He feels nauseous from too much cheese when they arrive as a tag-team, asking him too many questions about his father and his parenting choices._

_He’s aware, as Adina sits rides with him to foster care, that he has irrevocably changed his life. “I’m sorry your Dad’s a fucking bastard,” Adina says as she offers him an awkward hug outside of Victor House, “You’re a good kid Castiel. Good luck out there.”_

_Her words haunt him because, for some reason, those are the words that shock him most about the evening. He knew what was going to happen when he spoke out; knew too, that it was inevitable, that someone would pick up on it eventually and that all his action had done was give him the illusion of control. He _knew_ when he sat on the edge of his father’s cold bedsheets that everything was about to change._

_The word ‘bastard’ shocks him too his core. The word ‘bastard’ echoes round his head for the sleepless night that follow, as his whole existence is thrown into chaos._

_His father, Castiel thinks, trying the words out in the confines of his head, is a fucking bastard._

*

After they reach his dorm room and unpack his belongings into the Yale standard issue desk and bedside cabinet, Hester hugs him tightly and asks him whether he’s okay. 

Hester has been asking him this for long enough that it shouldn’t be a surprise that the question comes, yet he feels completely unprepared to answer it. He has reliably been telling Hester that he is _fine_ since he was relocated to Lawrence as a medium to prevent her worrying (not that it had been successful: if he’d been a little better at appearing well adjusted, she probably wouldn’t have insisted on the weekly therapy appointments or sporadic serious talks about his well being), but now the word is stuck in his throat. His aunt has successfully surprised him into silence.

“Castiel?” 

“No,” He says, then regrets it immensely. Both his aunt and Gabriel have to leave within the next ten minutes to get their flight and all Castiel’s admission has achieved is to upset the woman who has rearranged her life to find room for him in it. There is nothing _they can do_ about how raw and untethered he feels.

The image of her, stricken, follows him around for the next week.

*

The first time Dean comes up in conversation, it's brief. 

“What's your deal, Clarence?” Meg asks, hand on his arm, eyes suggestive of something. He doesn't want her anywhere near him. He doesn't really want to be here at all, but he’s fully aware that he _should_ be attending social events if he’s going to settle in (Gabriel had given him a socialisation crib sheet, which wasn’t nearly as funny as his cousin thought it would be) and he promised Hester that he would ‘make an effort’ this week, as though everything about Yale so far hasn’t been a tremendous effort. The party was on the floor above his and so, he went. “A unicorn like you, must have someone to keep you warm at night.”

“My relationship recently ended,” Cas says, shoulders tense.

“Huh,” Meg says, “Couldn’t hack the long distance?”

“He couldn’t,”

Meg offers him a thorny smile.

“When’d he do it?”

“Three weeks ago,” Castiel says, which is near enough the truth, even though Dean has had a foot out the door of his life for at least a month before that. 

“You need someone to wrestle your phone away to stop any drunk dialling, I love me a good tumble,” Meg says, patting him on the arm before swiping another drink and disappearing through the crowd of people, and that’s that.

Half an hour later, Meg appears to bail him out of a rapidly spiraling game of spin the bottle with a tilted smile in his direction. “Back off Clarence, Nick, he’s tending a broken heart.”

Yes, Castiel thinks, that is what he has. A broken heart. 

Meg is approximately his friend after that.

(He tells Hester about the party when she calls on Friday. He tells her that he is _fine_ and that he is enjoying his classes and he has made friends. He tells her that his roommate is not that bad and that the distance is helpful and, afterwards, he’s so exhausted he turns his cell phone off for three days. It doesn’t matter, because the only person he really wants to speak to told him to ‘drive safe’ then walked out of his life).

*

_“I don’t have low self esteem,” Castiel says, on a week in which he is unable to derail his Hester-sanctioned therapy session onto something mundane and irrelevant, because she is gradually learning enough to redirect him._

_“You don’t think you have low self esteem?” She asks, expression open, gaze long enough for him to understand why staring can make someone uncomfortable. On this occasion, he’s just irritated._

_“That’s what I just said.”_

_“So, you think you have high self esteem?”_

_“I - yes.”_

_“So, you like yourself?” Castiel cuts off his own response to stare at her, frustrated. “What do you like about yourself, Castiel?” He breaks her gaze to stare at the point above her left shoulder, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t have any pre-stored answers about what, in particular, he likes about himself, but he’s annoyed about where this leaves the conversation; her innate need to be right is infuriating and unhelpful. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Castiel,” She says, voice gentle, “But from what I see, you think of yourself very little.”_

_“Selflessness is a good thing,” Castiel says, “It’s _good_ that I attempt to be as inconvenient for Hester and Inias as possible. It’s good that I’m there for Dean.”_

_“You like etymology, right? You told me the meaning of your name.” He did do that, in one of the earlier weeks, when he was spewing enough soulless facts to her to honestly be able to tell Hester that he had engaged in therapy, while avoiding speaking about anything real; he has no particular feelings about etymology at all. “Let’s try our own version. Self-less-ness.” She pulls out a dictionary, a new addition to her bookshelf, and flicks through the pages. “The dictionary matches what you said - concern more with the needs and wishes of others than with one's own - but I like to change it around a little. Self-less. Less-self. Less of you. Less ‘self’. The definition of self…” She says, finger gliding across the pages, settling, “A person's essential being that distinguishes them from others. Less - a smaller amount of; a lower rank of. So what we’re really saying, Castiel, is that we have a smaller amount of the essential being of you. That the essential being that distinguishes you from others has a lower rank than other people. Do you think that’s a good thing?”_

_“That’s not how etymology works,” Castiel says, voice flat._

_He asks Dean whether he thinks Castiel has low self esteem several days later. He says ‘Fuck, Cas, I don’t know. I know you don’t talk about you a whole lot’ and that answer is so infuriatingly similar to what his therapist tried to say that he changes the subject entirely._

_He writes the list to prove himself that she’s wrong instead: he likes that he exists in the role of Dean’s boyfriend; he likes all the things he is in Dean’s perspective - attractive, amusing, smart, strong; he likes the way that he has fit into the Milton’s household; he likes that Charlie enjoys talking to him about Tolkien and that Gabriel begrudgingly enjoys his company. He likes being Hester’s nephew._

_Castiel likes himself just fine._

*

“Let’s quit the bullcrap here, Cassie,” Gabriel says, after thirty seconds of conversation. Castiel stretches out his feet and tightens his grip on his coffee, staring at his shoes. “You are not doing _fine_. You are doing, I don’t know, fifteen tiers below any definition of _fine_. Stop being a feeling tease, drop your pants and talk.” 

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, moving the phone away from his ear to lessen the exhausting energy that is conversation with his cousin, “My class starts in ten minutes. I didn’t ring to discuss the current status of my well being. I’m just... Checking in.”

All of that is true. His class does start in ten minutes and he is checking in, but his primary motive in this conversation is to avoid being _early_ , because whenever he is early to class there’s an increased chance that someone will try to speak to him and he has been exceptionally bad at managing any social interactions as of late. He has no idea how any of this works, because until his father left his socialisation involved holidays with his extended family who all considered him to be odd, but allowably so, and since then it has been _Lawrence_ , where Gabriel introduced him to every single person he knew with a cocked eyebrow and a half apology for his awkwardness. Gabriel pre-warned people that he was _strange_ and then eased over his stiffness with another distasteful joke or a sexual innuendo. He _fixed_ Castiel and gave him a damnable crib sheet with such sage advice as ‘try not to look like an axe murderer’ and ‘knock ‘em dead, kiddo’ in a misguided attempt to make him feel better. _Gabriel_ is irritating and impossible, larger than life, exhausting and knows exactly how to make people like him and Castiel misses him a lot more than he thought he would.

“Oh-kay,” Gabriel says, “Well, I’m up to my ass in assignments. Fucking _college_.”

“I’d imagine it doesn’t take too many assignments to reach your ass,”

“Call the presses - did you just make a joke?”

“The punchline is _you’re short_ ,” Castiel says, pointedly, “I do make jokes, Gabriel.” 

“Yeah, I know, cuz. Now try making one with someone who isn’t a thousand miles away and let me know how it goes.” 

He thought that having the experience of nine months of high school under his belt would make this easier, but it hasn’t. Castiel knows he is not _normal_. He’s not normal because he is too serious, too intense and too painfully unable to pick up on popular culture references, it just didn’t seem to matter in Lawrence. Gabriel accepted his quirks a long time ago and Charlie found them endearing. Dean said _’don’t ever change_ ’ while stretched out next to him on his bed at the Miltons, gaze honest and open. In Lawrence, he could remain within his select group of friends and justify his flaws because he was helping Dean. In Lawrence, he was _better_ at managing all of his flaws.

Now he is a hot mess of misread social cues, worry and the gnawing sensation of knowing that every time he calls Hester and does not have reports of new friends that he is causing her to worry deeply about his welfare. 

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, checking his watch. He has four minutes till his class starts. “Will you tell Hester that I am okay?”

“No,” Gabriel says, “Call me crazy, but I’m not deterring people from worrying’ about you when _I’m_ worried about you.”

“Knowing that I have upset her is not making me feel any better.”

“Damnit it,” Gabriel exhales, “Call that Meg chick. Get her to meet you for coffee and I’ll tell Mom - truthfully - that you’re not being all social hermit, intense-studying, not acknowledging that you literally _just_ had your heart smashed up. Deal?”

“Would you tell her that we discussed Dean?”

“You gonna give up the goods and _discuss_ Dean with me?”

“No,” 

“Then no,” Gabriel says, “Sorry Cassie.”

Before Lawrence, he did not have nicknames. He was _Castiel_ , always. Then there was Cassie and _Cas_ and _sweetheart_. Now, he gets Clarence. He doesn’t really like it, but Meg doesn’t particularly care whether he likes it or not. 

She has an interesting definition of friendship.

*

_“When you first came into my office and I asked you about your father leaving, you said you felt flat. I thought that was an interesting choice of words, so I looked it up.”_

_“Is Hester aware that your new technique is reading the dictionary to me?” Castiel asks, deliberately closing off his body language, because he is not in the mood for this today._

_“There are a few definitions,” She says, “As an adjective, I have… ‘having a level surface’ or ‘lacking emotion; dull and lifeless.’ It’s interesting to me that when I asked you about how you felt, you gave me a word that means ‘lacking emotion’, given some of the things we’ve talked about since then.”_

_He supposes that he’s meant to agree with her, or chime in that it is, indeed, fascinating, but he’s had an argument with Dean today and he is by no means in the mood to act like this hour of his life he agreed to for Hester’s sake has any real worth._

_“Dull,” She continues, “Lifeless. Those certainly aren’t the words that come to mind when I think of you, Castiel, and certainly not ‘lacking emotion’. You’re a very emotional person. However, the more I thought about it, the more I could see the other part - having a level surface.”_

_“That’s a different lexical meaning of ‘flat’. It has nothing to do with the word I picked out months ago to describe a significant life event.”_

_“But you do have a very level surface,” She says, “I’m thinking of what you’ve said about your relationships, primarily with Dean and Gabriel. You’ve frequently expressed that Gabriel is very annoying.”_

_“On purpose, yes, he is highly irritating.”_

_“And you’re angry at Dean,”_

_“Yes,”_

_“But you don’t lose your temper with Gabriel.”_

_“Expressing displeasure to Gabriel is futile,” Castiel says, “Usually, it makes whatever it is more amusing for him.”_

_“And with Dean,” She prompts, raising an eyebrow at him, “You argued about Dean applying for college.”_

_“He didn’t tell me he’d been accepted to college, at all.”_

_“And that upset you,”_

_“Yes,”_

_“And what did you do about that?” She asks, launching into her point when Castiel doesn't say anything, “You told me about the argument in the coffee shop and you told me that he got that money through to help him get somewhere to live, so you called him. You didn’t talk about why you were upset or the fact that you’d had an argument. You decided that trying to explain why you were upset was, what was the word you used? Futile.”_

_“Please do not look up the word ‘futile’ next,” Castiel says, glaring at the ceiling._

_“You maintain a _level surface_ in your relationships, regardless of what you’re feeling and you regret the moments where you don’t maintain that surface.”_

_“Fine,” Castiel says, lips thin, “I am a _level surface_. That is exactly what I meant six months ago; that I am perpetually horizontal.”_

_“Castiel,” She says, cocking a head at him, “Do you believe that, if you cause any difficulty within a relationship - any bumps in the road - that the other party will no longer consider you worth the effort?”_

*

His roommate has gone away for the weekend. The news brang such blessed relief that he sounded ‘almost freaking chirper’ in the call he actually answered from Gabriel (after over a month of cohabitation, Castiel is entirely sure that he hates his roommate), which naturally lead to Gabriel insisting he ‘act like a real college student. Get laid, get drunk, get _something_ ’.

“Gabriel,”

“Invite a friend over or something, Cassie,” Gabriel says, “Mom said you made some more of those.” Castiel says silent. “Cassie. You better not have made that up to keep her out your crap, because we can’t both lie to Mom or she’ll get suspicious. She named them, bucko. Making up _names_ is just -”

“They _exist_ , Gabriel,” Castiel cuts across, sharp, “I’m just tired.”

“Uhuh,” Gabriel scoffs, “If you don’t _try_ , Cas -”

Castiel is trying impossibly hard. He is trying harder than he knew was possible, it just seems to make very little difference to his success. 

He invites Hannah over to study to get Gabriel off his back and to secure another good report to his Aunt.

Meg crashes with a bottle of citrus vodka and her bitter one liners like she does in a typical Meg fashion that Hannah strictly does not approve of. They do not get along, but their bickering reminds him a little of himself and Gabriel in a way that’s almost reassuring. Its quickly apparent that Meg is not going to leave (Hannah asks her outright because that is the kind of bluntness that Hannah employs, which might be why they now spend time together), so they all end up with vodka and ‘girl talk’ and they ask him about _Dean_ after he’s had enough vodka to answer with a degree of honesty.

“That sounds very difficult,” Hannah says, after he's finished.

“It was very hard for Dean,” Castiel acknowledges, his chest folding in on itself like it does whenever he thinks too hard about Dean.

“Not for Dean, for you.” Hannah counters, taking a sip of her vodka and fixing her with her big wide eyes.

Castiel’s brain sticks. 

“You poor schmuck, Clarence,” Meg says, “You don’t even see it. A month down the line and you still don’t see how much this guy used you up.”

“He was…. Meg, he was homeless,”

“Yeah, I heard you. I laughed, I cried, I threw up in my mouth a little,” Meg drawls, “And, sure, my heart bleeds for special snowflake Dean, but did you ever stop for one little minute and think about yourself?” 

“Castiel, did this relationship make you happy?”

“Yes,” Castiel grates out, the word catching on his throat. _Of course_ Dean made him happy. He loved him. Their relationship was the definitive experience of his high school career. Dean _was_ the time he spend living with Hester and Inias. He was happy.

“Really? Because what I’m hearing, the guy used you as an emotional crutch while you guilted yourself into trying to save his butt,” Meg says, “It doesn’t sound like you were happy, it sounds like you were depended upon.”

“I was the only person he had,”

“Tough shit, Clarence,” Meg says, “That doesn’t give you the right to piss over the people you care about.”

“Dean...”

“Did he ever ask about how you felt?” Hannah asks.

“I didn’t allow him to ask,”

“He’s not here,” Meg says, leaning back on his chair, “You don’t need to defend him.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Castiel says, with enough finality that neither Hannah nor Meg push him any further.

Castiel is quite sure that neither Hannah or Meg meant it to, but it sparks off a wave of self-doubt that almost crushes him.

*

It hits him that he’s over a thousand miles away from anyone that _really_ cares about him a few hours after Hannah and Meg have left. He rises up in his gut like nausea until he’s choking on it, completely, and he’s _alone_ and he has no idea who he’s supposed to be with no one to anchor himself against. He is not his father’s son. He’s not Dean’s boyfriend. He’s a thousand miles away from being _Hester’s Nephew_ and, and he’s alone and lost and he’s been drowning in this shitty impossible feeling of missing everyone. And _Dean_.

He calls Gabriel. 

“Twice in a day, Cuz-o,” Gabriel says, with the hum of people in the background. He’s out. He’s socialising. Probably at some party or other, because why _wouldn’t_ he be. People like Gabriel. He is irritating and ridiculous, but liked. Castiel has never managed it and he can't really imagine he ever will.

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, the word catching in his throat, shattering.

“Oh, shit,” Gabriel says, then he hears him making some muffled excuse, then his cousin’s voice is back on the line, the background noise depleted. “What’s going on, Cassie?”

“Have you seen him?” Castiel asks, which wins him a long, extended pause. He can hear Gabriel lighting up a cigarette and exhaling. 

“Yes,” Gabriel says, short, like he was expecting the question. Castiel had thought that he would be beyond asking, but he’s not. He _misses_ him.

“How is he?”

“Man, I hate this shit,” Gabriel says, “What do you want me to say, huh? I _told_ him I didn’t wanna wind up of the middle of this.”

“Gabriel,”

“He’s _Dean_ , Cassie. He acted like you didn’t exist and I didn’t push him on it, but we’re talking about the guy who slept in his car for goddamn months and didn’t say a damn thing to anyone. How he _seems_ doesn’t have a whole lot to do with how he feels.” 

“You don’t need to protect me if he doesn’t care.”

“Awh, fuck, Cassie. Don't do that.”

“What shouldn't I do?”

“Don't get me wrong, cuz, I'm glad you're acknowledging that this happened all of a sudden, but don't _torture_ yourself.”

“Gabriel, I need to know if he is okay.”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Gabriel says, “I've seen him twice. First time he dropped round my car keys. He looked like shit and wouldn't look me in the eye. Second time, I got the regular Winchester bravado: you know, chiseled man pain, over the top smiles. His job is fine. He's got slightly more of a life than you, which largely revolves around trying to drive Sam around to places and nothing else. He's _surviving_ , like he always does.”

“Okay.”

“Frankly, I'm more concerned about _you_.”

“I am fine, Gabriel,” Castiel says, only it turns out that he’s completely wrong about that. 

*

_The first time he cries over the loss of his mother, he is seven, by which time it’s already seven years too late. He is thinking of his conception of mothers when the tears come, bitter and heavy, spurred on by a book his tutor read him and a TV show. He’s hugging the book to his chest and crying, quietly, when the tutor fetches his father._

_Castiel’s father always seemed large by matter of perspective. Castiel was always craning to look at him from his vantage position - sat on his knees at the dinner table to reach his cutlery, stretching onto his tiptoes on the floor to meet his eyes - but, this time, his father crouched down and joined his level. His face swam in front of him beyond the tears, coming into focus as he hastily blinked away his tears to get a proper look at him._

_“Castiel,” His father says, voice deep as he faces him, “I hear you miss your mother.”_

_He nods, wrapping his arms around himself, another tear slipping out of his eyes. “I understand that,” His father says, cross legged on the floor next to him, “I miss your mother too. I miss her a great deal, but what do you suppose crying is going to achieve?”_

_He’s crying too much to answer._

_“Do you think that crying is going to bring her back to us?”_

_He shakes his head._

_“Then I don’t want to be disturbed for this again,” His father says, curt, then he stands up and leaves. He’s not sure _why_ , but suddenly his chest is shaking with _new_ tears, the kind burried deep in his tummy, that hurt when they come out, loud, with sobs that shake his whole body. He cries and he cries and his tutor - Sarah - says ‘Oh Castiel’ and pulls him into a hug. She holds him close against chest and he hides his tears in the material of her cardigan, she smells like perfume and Castiel wishes that she was his mother. She lets him off learning anything else for the day and gives him the candy that she had in her handbag and, at the end of the day, she knocks on the door of his father’s office with a fixed line for a mouth and narrow eyes._

_He gets a new tutor the next day._

_The next time he needs to cry, he locks himself in the bathroom and makes sure that nobody sees him. He glares at his expression and in his head he says _what is crying going to achieve_ in his best Dad-voice. _

_He does not cry in front of anyone else again._

*

Castiel wouldn’t be able to tell you why he’s knocked out by his insecurities in the weeks proceeding Halloween, but he goes from being at least able to convince himself that he’s _fine_ to being trapped in the expanse of his own head in two days flat. 

It’s all buried deeper than Dean, of course, but he wakes up one October morning quite sure Dean did not love him. It shouldn’t feel like a bone deep surprise because Dean never claimed otherwise. The _silence_ whenever Castiel carefully extracted his feelings in conversation should have been a sufficient answer to the question he was never brave enough to ask, but he somehow managed to placate himself that Dean just wasn’t in for talking about feelings like that. Although better at digging into his emotions than _Castiel_ , he didn’t really like talking about it. Dean’s emotions were better read through actions; the way he looked after Sam, or the care he took of his impala, or the way he’d smile at Castiel when they talked, sometimes. _Except_ , it all feels less obvious after his conversation with Hannah and Meg and their persistent dislike of him since: Dean did not initially tell him about his homelessness, he did not confide in Castiel about college, he did not wish to try to continue their relationship long distance and he told Castiel as such, months in advance; they did not discuss Castiel’s insecurities, or his father, or how he felt. He didn’t go to the damnable prom with him. He has not sent him a single message since he pressed a mixed tape into his hand and wished him a _safe drive_ , like he probably does for every customer of Rufus’ garage.

In his head, it follows that his father did not love him.

If Dean didn't, with all the care and loyalty that Dean showed him (until he didn't ), then his father surely didn't. He would not have left if he'd really loved him. He wouldn’t have disappeared and left Castiel to manage the confusion and the chaos and the decisions like he had.

The common denominator in both of these scenarios is _Castiel_. 

He forgets to call Hester or Gabriel for three weeks.

*

_“You love Dean,” His therapist repeats, almost smiling as she watches him, repeating his words back to him. It had occurred to him this week as he was watching Dean over lunch and the truth of it resounded in his head for the rest of the day - he loved Dean. He loved him. He is telling his therapist because it seems unwise to tell Dean and because she is always trying to goad him into talking about his feelings. Here, he is bringing them up of his own accord; rashly declaring them to her across her office._

_“Your dictionary likely has a number of definitions for love,” Castiel says, “It has been debated since Socrates.”_

_“Maybe we should look them up anyway,” She says, exchanging a smile with him before she reaches for it, “See if any of them fit. Synonyms,” She says, quirking up her eyebrows and he’s in a good enough mood to allow her to pull him along into the fun of it, “Fondness, tenderness, warmth, intimacy, to be besotted with, infatuation, inclination... to be _passionate_ about. Which of those do you feel about Dean?”_

_“All of them.”_

_“Are you going to tell him?”_

_“No,” He says, frowning._

_“Why not?”_

_“I… I don’t know whether he would consider it to be good news. Dean has a great deal going on. Sometimes he hears things about something entirely different as pressure and expectation. I am not sure if knowing would be good for Dean.”_

_“I see,” She says, smile warm and accessible, not quite fake and yet not real either. “Perhaps, Castiel, you should start by telling someone who you know would like to hear that you love them.”_

_As a general rule, he ignores a great deal of what goes on in his therapy session. Something to do with his good mood and watching as Hester gets home from work and changes out of her work clothes before stopping in the kitchen to ask them both about their homework has him almost sad with expectation. In the end, he hangs around the kitchen to unload the dishwasher and to ensure that they’re alone in the kitchen._

_“Castiel?” Hester asks, her voice on the edge of worry, “Are you okay?”_

_“I love you,” He says, painfully serious and with none of the fineness he intended the declaration to hold. Hester is good to the core, so it doesn’t matter that he is bad at speaking about this kind of thing. Her mouth melts into affection and then into a large, lovely smile. “Thank you for taking me in.”_

_“Oh, Castiel,” Hester says, resting her hands on his shoulders, smiling, brushing his hair away from his face. “I know you do. And we’ve always loved you too. You don’t need to thank us for staying here,” She says, fingertips brushing against his forehead before she leans forward to kiss the skin there. “You’re part of our family. Don’t forget that.”_

_At that moment, with Hester pulling him into a hug, it seems impossible that he could ever could._

*

Meg is the reason why he realises his error. She arrives at his dorm room with a bitter smile and a demand for coffee. He acquiesces because it’s easier than resistance and she fills most of their shared coffee with rolling chatter about her life. She wants him to come along to a Halloween party because she’s not going alone and because there’s a guy that she wants him to meet and Castiel agrees because it’s easier and he’s exhausted from more social interaction than he’s experienced in a while. Before she leaves for her class, she narrows her eyes at him and says “So, you got a new number or something?” Castiel frowns at her. “You didn’t answer my text messages, Clarence.”

“I,” Castiel begins, then looks down at the pockets of his trench coat. It occurs to him that he hasn’t bought his cell phone with him and that he has no memory of receiving any messages from Meg. It must be in his dorm room. “It’s flat.”

“For _two weeks_?” Meg asks and he thinks _oh_ and then _oh no_. 

He charges his cell phone. He has thirty four missed calls and the guilt he feels when he reads the text messages from Hester, Gabriel and even Inias is utterly oppressive and it feels entirely inadequate to say _he hadn’t registered_ the time passing and he has no better excuse. Most are dated within the last few days. The newest was half an hour ago, while he was having coffee with Meg.

Hester answers on the first ring and immediately begins to cry. He doesn’t get further than ‘hello’ before her tears surpass her ability to speak and then he finds himself being passed over to Gabriel, which means that they were collectively worried enough for Gabriel to come home from his dorm room.

“Cassie,” Gabriel says, “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, stricken, “I didn’t mean to,”

“You okay?”

“Yes, Gabriel, I’m -I forgot to charge my cell phone.”

Gabriel exhales.

“It’s okay, Cassie,” Gabriel says, audibly standing up, quieter, “You just picked a bad time to go AWOL. Anna’s been readmitted so Mom’s a little… oversensitive, right now, so when we tallied up and realised no one had heard from you… she lost it, but you’re okay?”

“I am okay. Is Anna - ?”

“ - fine,” Gabriel says, waving this way, “Same old. Same story. You know you can’t just _forget_ to charge your cell phone for three weeks and expect this family not to have a coronary. Also, what the _hell_ , Cassie? The relief that you’re okay like, just, passed, so now I get to be pissed at you a moment. Mom freaked out. She called Yale. You’re eighteen so they wouldn’t do anything, except some woman who confirm you’d been attending your classes, which - what the fuck, Cassie? We were half an hour away from flying out to you and knocking your damn door down.” 

“I…” Castiel begins, voice taunt, bent over his phone with his eyes slammed shut.

“Gabriel,” Hester says, from Gabriel’s end of the phone. She is upset and hurting and _he_ caused that. Castiel _did_ that by getting too lost in his own head to realise what was happening. 

“Okay, family phone call time: you’re on speaker. Talk, Cuz. What the hell happened?”

“It’s no excuse,” Castiel says, sat against the wall of his dorm room, trying to blink the world back into focus. He doesn’t know how it happened. He doesn’t know _how_ the time slipped past him. “But I am… unaccustomed to people caring about me. I didn’t intend for you to worry. I…” His voice trails off and he swallows, hard, “I’ve been thinking. I was unaware my phone was flat.”

“Castiel,” Hester says, her voice still cracked with tears, with strength buried beneath it, “We love you. Innias. Gabriel. Me. Anna. We _love_ you.” 

(The common denominator in that is _Castiel_ ). 

By the end of the speaker call, they have decided: Castiel is to find a new therapist in Yale; he is to check in every three days and he is to call at least once a week where he is to be honest about how he is feeling; he is coming back to Lawrence for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and he will be an active participant in both; he will attend the Halloween party as suggested by Meg and he will return a message he received from Hannah during the time his phone was off. Castiel _will_ be okay, even if it takes all of his extended family to get him there.

*

_His overriding memory of Aunt Hester is of her arriving late to their Christmas celebration in a ill fitting pantsuit because she was still at work. In Castiel’s memory, his cousin Gabriel is eight and perpetually has his hand in a bag of sweets - he is bright, talkative and says things that Castiel does not understand - but he abandons his sweets the second his mother comes home and attaches himself to her instead. She disappears into a room for a while and comes out in jeans and a Christmas sweater. She has smile lines and picks Gabriel up, laughing. He has seen her since then, but that’s always the memory that comes to mind when he thinks of his Aunt, so when the social worker says ‘your Aunt Hester’ he thinks of Gabriel, and that Christmas, and the longing he felt to be picked up and swung around and to understand joy like his cousin._

_Hester stands up when he walks into the room. She’s in another pantsuit and her hair is greyer than the last time he saw her, but she reaches for him and pulls him into a hug. She holds him tight with a grip stronger than it seems she should have and she smells just like his memory. “Castiel,” She says, smoothing a hand over his shoulder, smiling at him, “It’s going to be all right.”_

_Later that evening, they fly to Kansas City airport together and say very little. He discovers that Gabriel is still addicted to sugar, slightly taller and kinder to him than expected given Castiel has crash landed in his life and disrupted everything. He discovers that Inias is quiet but good and accepting of his sudden appearance in their home. He learns that Hester shows affection through touch; that she rests her hands on his shoulders as they discuss his attending high school, that she casually tries to flatten his hair as he offers to wash up. Two evenings later, he meets Dean; the first thing he says to him is ‘my father left’ and the last is ‘thank you’._


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel’s second therapist is employed by Yale as part of their pastoral care system and he gets six session for free, with the option to pay for continued sessions afterwards. He has already negotiated with Hester that they will discuss the necessity of continued appointments at Christmas, but in reality he is willing to do whatever will rectify his neglect of her nurturing tendencies. His new therapist is called Naomi and his first impression is of a woman similar to Hester, but with the warmth and the motherly tendencies surgically removed. She is all smiles as he sits down for his first session, armed with the questionnaire he filled out the previous week, but she does not for a second come across as friendly.

“Castiel,” She says, facing him, “Tell me why you’re here.”

He _wants_ to feel better than he does currently. He _wants_ Hester and Gabriel not to have to prop him up from afar and he wants them to feel confident enough about his ability to manage things on his own not to worry. He does not want to continue second guessing himself, to check out of his life for a week, to get so caught up in trying to fix everything that he breaks it all further. He wants to be better than he currently is, so he draws out his history from the well in his gut and tells her everything. 

It feels as uncomfortable as he always thought it would.

*

Meg knows him well enough to realise that the concept of a ‘Halloween Costume’ passed him by for the entirety of his existence, and turns up at his room an hour before the party that he doesn’t really want to go to with a tub of silver body paint and a halo. Meg has devil horns. Had she warned him about this previously, he would almost certainly have expressed some very non level-surface views and refused to attend, but by the time she shows up he’s already spent enough time talking himself into the party that he just agrees.

“Meg,” Castiel says, staring, “Our costumes match.” 

“Nothing gets passed you, Clarence,” Meg says, giving him a red-lipstick smile before dragging her gaze over him. Her outfit matches her lipstick; red, red, red and expanses of pale skin, and lots of it. He did not know that they made dresses so short. “I’ve got you to thank,” She continues, as she takes a hip flask and two paper cups out of her bag with a wink, pouring a generous measure into both. “If it wasn’t for your name I’d still be seeking revelation, working out what we should wear.”

Castiel takes the cup she presses into his hands.

“My name is enochian. It has nothing to do with the demonic.”

“Oh, please,” Meg says, “I’m no angel. Although, if _every_ Angel was as delicious as you, maybe I wouldn’t have minded having an angel on my shoulder. Or anyway where else, for that matter.”

“What is this?” Castiel asks, bringing the cup up to his nose to smell it, cautious. 

“Social anxiety cure in a cup,” She says, holding it aloft before tipping it down her throat. “Believe me, Clarence. Once, I too struggled with the socialising - the unknown.”

“And then you elected to be intoxicated instead.”

“Hello? Demon. Also, _college_ ,” Meg says, “Come on, Castiel, live a little with me. I’ll make sure you stumble back to your dorm room safe. Trust me.” 

To Castiel’s distinct surprise, he does.

The ‘social anxiety cure’ tastes a great deal link a blend of vodka and whiskey, but it slips down his throat easy enough.

“You’ve drank before,”

“ _Yes_.”

“Excuse me, Mr Homeschooled.”

“I attended high school for nine months, Meg.”

“Sure,” Meg says, topping up their glasses, “But you spent most of that with Sir Angstalot. _I_ don’t know whether he introduced to alcohol or not.”

“He did,” Castiel says, knocking the second glass back without blinking, “Alcohol, detentions, cigarettes, sex.”

“The thorough high school education,” Meg says, “You got music in this joint?” She commanders his laptop without asking, filling his room with loud music with too much drumming and very little content. “So, Clarence, my unicorn,” Meg says, filling his glass again, sitting cross legged on his bed so that her extremely short red fake-leather dress rises up even further, exposing her underwear underneath. “Tell me: is it just the dick that gets you hot, or could you be persuaded?”

Castiel considers his paper cup of mystery alcohol, thinking. 

“I don’t,” Castiel begins, then looks up at her, “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t _know_? Oh, wow, Clarence, you’re the gift that keeps on giving,” Meg says, watching him with her eyes slightly narrowed, almost-smiling. “You never asked yourself, hey, what gets me all warm under the collar, makes my insides tingley.”

“It hadn’t come up,”

“Hah,” Meg says, “Sorry. It hadn’t _come up_. And then there was _Dean_.”

“Yes,” 

“And that’s all he wrote.”

“What?” 

“What indeed,” Meg says, taking a sip of her drink, leaving a red rim of lipstick on her cup, “You know, I have you a rebound lined up, buutt… you’re _cute_ Clarence. You let me know when you’ve worked out what direction you’re swinging to; maybe I’ll be the one that catches you.”

“You should know I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Castiel says, emboldened, as he knocks back his third measure of mystery alcohol. “I think I’m starting to feel something.”

Meg throws her head back in laugh.

“Oh, you’re too much,” She says, standing up and pulling out a bottle of rum she must have stored in his bedroom at some point, because Meg has very limited concepts of personal boundaries and what is and isn’t acceptable behaviour. Castiel likes that quality about her. She refils her hip flask expertly, before tucking the bottle back under his bed. “Are you having fun yet?”

To his express surprise, he is.

*

_Castiel gets back from his first college-party at that point of intoxication where he feels too alive to sleep. There’s too much beer sloshing around in his gut and he feels, he doesn’t know, the opposite of flat. Uneven. Sharp. Raw._

_He feels...what was the words Meg used, casually, as though emotions were easy to diagnose? A broken heart. _Heartbroken_. It seemed to fit at the time but he’s never been any good at choosing words to explain away his insides; at encapsulating the sensations of feelings into something that made it accessible to an on-looker. He has never really understood why that was important until he was trying to prize open Dean’s thoughts from the look on his face. He’s still unsure why anyone not paid to do by his Aunt would want to do the same for him. _

_Castiel sits on his bed, then throws his legs up onto the mattress with the world spinning slightly. He didn’t bring a dictionary with him, so he looks the word up on his phone instead with a mental nod to his old therapist._

_Heartbroken; suffering from overwhelming distress._

_He tries saying the words aloud to see whether they slot anything into place. I am suffering from overwhelming distress. Overwhelming distress. Overwhelming distress._

_“Shut the hell up, Cas -tea- whatever,” His roommate says, throwing what appears to be a sock in his direction. It misses, but Castiel does shut up regardless. He shuts up and lies there and thinks and thinks, and then he gets up to stumble to the bathroom and throw up._

_He must be doing this ‘first college-party’ thing wrong, he decides after he’s climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets around himself. He has the acidic taste of alcohol at the back of his throat, his head is still swimming and it’s the most alone he’s felt since arriving. He was under the impression that they were supposed to be enjoyable._

*

To his surprise, or due to the strength and speed at which he consumed the alcohol back in his dorm room, entering the Halloween party looking sufficiently ridiculous with his wings and halo attached feels a lot less intimidating with Meg leading the way. She is at home in these settings; she walks in and commands attention, taking hold of Castiel’s wrist to pull him through the crowd and only pausing when they reach the just-set-up keg. She introduces him to five or six people on top speed, naming them too quickly for him to keep track with her fingers still closed tight around his wrist.

“This is Castiel,” She says, “My very own unicorn and the most fun I’ve ever had without taking my clothes off.”

He is sure that there is an insult buried under her words but equally sure that her intent, if not entirely pure, is mostly good. Meg likes him. Meg likes him enough to turn up at his room due to unanswered messages and likes him enough to arrange their matching Halloween costumes. She likes him enough to go out of her way to ensure that he is having a good time and has picked up enough information about him to declare alcohol as a cure for his awkwardness and to inconvenience herself to ensure he’s having fun.

Better than all of that, she introduces him to the people in her orbit without apologising for him first. She boldly claims him as somehow hers, even though that means owning his social ineptitudes. 

“And _here_ ,” Meg says, grabbing him a beer and pulling him over to the corner of the suite, smile thorny, “Is your rebound.” 

“Meg,”

“ _Mick_ ,” Meg says, dropping Castiel’s wrist and painting on a different smile, “This is Castiel. His ex-boyfriend was a real piece of work. What he really needs is a self esteem boost - some knight in shining armour to tell him just how sexy he is. Mick is British. Excuse me.”

_Mick_ is dressed as a knight, studies pre-law and laughs loudly when Castiel asks what Meg means by ‘rebound’.

When Castiel leaves, Meg has ensured that his number is programmed into his phone, and she punctuates their walk with loud, obnoxious comments that Castiel is beginning to find amusing. She insists that she needs to _sit_ a moment when they get to his room, then kicks her shoes off and lies down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Promise I won't jump your bones if you join me,” Meg says, shifting along his bed to make room. Castiel kicks off his own shoes before lying down next to her. “Have fun tonight?”

“ Yes,” Castiel says, “I should tell my Aunt. Or Gabriel.”

“Those two things related, Clarence?”

“My aunt is,” Castiel begins, then pauses because, really, there is no need for him to share this information. “Concerned about me. Gabriel passes on reports.”

“Gabriel being…?”

“My cousin.”

“You're not even fucking with me, are you angel?”

“We have stupid names, yes, it's hilarious. Additionally Gabriel is short and I have no understanding of popular culture references or what should be taken literally - it is all very very funny.”

“I get it, you're over the name jokes. So they worry about you, huh?”

“I went to live with them last year. They… They worry that I'm not engaging. They want me to have ‘more fun’, although I’m unclear how fun can be quantified and measured.”

“Give me your phone,” Meg says, digging it out of his pocket without waiting for permission, then holding it above them to take a photograph. She finds Gabriel's contact information and sends it to him with the message ‘ he having enough fun for you yet? - Meg x’ and a winky face. Gabriel replies within seconds with his own photo of him, still out for Halloween, wearing part of a white suit and likely imitating a character Castiel doesn’t recognise. Meg laughs before rolling to her side and typing out a reply.

Castiel feels strangely good. Alive. Less like an observer than he usually does.

“You heard from Dean?”

“No,” Castiel says.

“You free tomorrow?”

“Except classes, yes.”

He has his therapy session, too, but he doesn’t want to have that conversation right now. He can take this stuff in increments. 

“Hey,” Castiel's roommate says, turning on the light to glare at them, “Cas-d-whatever the fuck it is, if you're going to screw, screw already, and if not will you _piss off_ or shut up.”

“Learn his fucking name, asshole,” Meg says, turning all the lights on in retaliation, then off, then on. “Oh fuck this,” his roommate declares, storming towards their suite and slamming the door behind him. His room is very silence for a few long moments, as Castiel considers the fact that he is being defended on name recognition by someone who consistently calls him Clarence. 

“Meg, that was rude,” Castiel says, eventually. 

“Hello, demon?” Meg says, which is funny enough to conjure up a laugh from his chest. “You know, there’s not a chance in hell I’m moving now.”

“You’ll get cold in that dress,” Castiel says, frowning as he stands up to retrieve one of the blankets Hester packed for him, just in case Yale didn’t have adequate heating. He throws it over her before taking one of his pillows and another blanket. 

“You know, Clarence, you’re one of the nicest fucking people I’ve met since touching down in this place,” Meg says, “You _care_ , you know?” 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say and is quite sure that Meg would have kept the words locked inside her head if she was more sober. 

“Sleep well,” He settles on, before stepping out into his suite to tell his roommate that there will be no more talking, to apologise, and take up residence on the sofa for the rest of the night.

Meg has left by the time he’s woken up in the morning. She has left him a post-it note thanking him for lending her clothes (which, incidentally, he did not actually _agree_ to) and has taken it upon herself to put his phone on charge. 

It’s only after he’s had breakfast in the food hall that he realises that she has also used his phone to arrange for him to meet Mick for coffee.

*

__

_Dean is sat next to him on his bed, Castiel has just tried cigarettes for the first time and he is consumed by a tug of _something_ that draws him closer to Dean Winchester that he doesn’t have the name for. This, like so much that has happened since he got to Lawrence, feels too new, too much and too confusing._

_"You never told me about your family.”_

_"Not much to tell," Dean says, scrunching his hands into fists and not looking at him. Castiel _wants_ him to look at him very much, but there’s little he can do about that except to continue to ask the questions he has been thinking about a great deal in the past few weeks._

_"Gabriel said all he knows is that you live with your father, who is 'a bit of a douchenozzle'."_

_"You been digging, huh?” Dean asks, exhaling as he turns his gaze to half-meet Castiel’s. He rolls off his family history in a monotone, as if he’s rehearsed this retelling of events. Castiel recognises the removal of emotions from a story that contains a great deal of pain, in the same way that he told Dean ‘my father left’ like it was simple and clean cut. Still, he can read through the gaps: Dean’s childhood was unusual, too, transient, marked by tragedy, filled with tension and arguments._

_Castiel would like to press further. He wants to know things about Dean. He wants to know how he and his father speak to each other; whether Sam likes it when Dean refers to him as ‘Sammy’ when he is feeling particularly overprotective; how it felt to final settle in one location._

_"I'm sorry about your mother, Dean."_

_"Yeah, me too," Dean mutters, and then he turns to meet Castiel’s gaze properly. They are very close, which is Castiel’s misjudgement of distance mixed with his desire to be as near to Dean as possible that he’s suppressing badly. Dean doesn’t move away, though, so perhaps it’s okay._

_"What about your mom?"_

_He doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting Dean to turn the questions onto himself._

_"I don't remember her. Cancer. I hadn't learned to talk yet,” Castiel says, his voice purposely flat. He does not want to talk about either of his parents. He deflects, instead, let’s Dean start talking about his mother and Sam. Rambling, even._

_It occurs to him that Dean is nervous._

_Castiel pushes for more, asks another question, purposefully directs their conversation further away from himself._

_"Dude, this is already more honest than I've been with anyone, ever,” Dean says, his voice carefully arranged into something like light. Dean uses humour to deflect away from himself when he is uncomfortable or admitting something that makes him feel vulnerable._

_"Why don't you believe that people want to listen to you?"_

_The fact that he has an effect on Dean is interesting. A good kind of interesting that has him twisting closer, testing out boundaries. Gabriel had said that Dean was ‘into him’, but it seemed unlikely. Dean is fascinating and enigmatic and has the power to ease over situations with a bad joke. Dean can set people at ease. He knows how to flirt. He is liked and attractive. Castiel is none of those things, and yet..._

_"Cause, they don't," Dean says, his gaze flicking down to his lips, "You need your eyes tested cause..."_

_Castiel reaches out to trace the curve of Dean’s bottom lip, partially by accident and partially because he just wants to. Dean lets him. Watches him. Shifts his whole body closer to give him better access._

_"You, uh, done this in your stint as teenage rebel?"_

_"No," Cas breathes, and then Dean kisses him._

_It occurs to him later that it is the first time Dean had lied so directly to his face about what was going on in his life._

*

He tells Mick that Meg took his phone and arranged their coffee before he sits down. Generally, he’s more serious and intense when he’s nervous and Meg inadvertently scheduled _this_ in between one of his more difficult classes and his therapy appointment. He debated cancelling for a great deal of the morning but he translates badly over text messages, sometimes, and did not want to appear rude.

Given Mick raises his eyebrows slightly, he has probably come across as rude regardless. 

“Okay then,” he says, “Is there any particular reason you _didn’t_ arrange this yourself?”

Castiel is mildly hungover, his neck hurts from sleeping on the sofa and he is bad, generally, at this kind of scenario (he has never actually been set up on a probable-date by a friend posing as himself via text message before, but navigating anything to do with romance and sex is beyond his natural remit). He thinks he is probably irritated at Meg for interfering with his life and he is _hungry_. These things combined reduces his capacity for tact to zero. 

“I’m in love with my ex-boyfriend,” Castiel says, “So I am a fairly bad romantic prospect, which is what Meg heavily implied when she introduces us and is generally the subtext of exchanging phone numbers. I had no intention of wasting your time.” 

“You hungry?” Mick says, “They have a coffee and toastie deal on for the next forty minutes.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, because he is hungry, even if that is not the response he was expecting from his outpouring. 

Mick catches the eye of the waitress so they can both order, then sets down the menu to look at him. He is, Castiel registers, attractive. He’d noted it the previous evening, but he’d been unsure as to whether that was spurred on by the beer and the content of Meg’s concoction; it’s still present now, he just lacks the desire to do anything about it. His mind is still far too tangled up in Dean to make room for another person in his head and, anyway, it doesn’t seem like the right time. He is trying to _fix_ himself. 

“So, Castiel, are you always this honest?”

“That depends on whether I’ve had enough coffee to censor myself.” Mick laughs at that. “I am… not at my best today.”

“No need to make excuses. To tell you the truth, it’s refreshing.” _That_ Castiel has definitely not heard before. “Was it a bad breakup?” 

“I don’t know what constitutes as a ‘bad breakup’. I definitely have not been enjoying it.” 

“And no romantic capacity as of yet,”

“None,” Castiel agrees.

“Now, I’m no expert, but my understanding of rebounds is that they’re not supposed to be profound, emotional bonds. I’m pretty sure they’re just supposed to be… a bit of fun.” 

Castiel is just about to try and ask for clarity about what, exactly, he is suggesting when the waitress arrives with their food.

*

“What's going on in your head, Castiel?” Hester asks, one evening while he's checking in, weekly, as he promised he would.

It's difficult to express.

“How do you know you can trust your judgement?” Castiel asks. 

“Castiel,” Hester says, “A wise person once told me, if you’re struggling to choose between two options it’s likely because they are both as good as each other. If one were obviously better, there would be no decision to make, and if you’re choosing between two roughly-the-same-options - what does it matter which you choose?” 

“How can you know you have adequate information about the decision?”

“You simply make the best call you can make at the time with the information you have available at that time. You may _later_ find out information that makes your perspective change, but that’s outside of your control,” Hester says, which sounds very logical, but also exceedingly difficult. “Castiel, you’re too hard on yourself. You need to allow yourself to make mistakes sometimes.”

From Castiel’s perspective, all he does it make mistakes.

*

Castiel is not subtle. He is complicated and confused and has very little idea about what he wants or what he’s prepared to do to get it, but he knows enough about himself to know that _subtle_ is not one of his qualities.

He is not going to try and soften that for other people. He is _done_ with that.

He types out _‘My roommate is away for the weekend if your previous coded offer of casual sex still stands’_ to Mick at half nine on a Saturday morning. He is frustrated with studying, bored and no less clear on what is or isn’t the right decision, but he has established the negative consequences are minimal enough not to prevent him.

There is no reason why he shouldn’t and, anyway, as the voice in the back of his head that sounds like Meg keeps pointing out, it could be fun.

Mick replies thirty minutes later to say he’s free in an hour.

*

_Dean is gone. Hester wakes him up at 3am to asks him whether he’s heard from Dean because Sonny has called and he’s gotten in his car and he's _gone_. Sam got into some trouble, or something, but Castiel can’t concentrate on the details because _Dean got into his car and drove somewhere_. And it wasn’t here. He didn’t come here._

_Castiel should never have left Sonny’s. He knew Dean wasn’t okay. He’d _known_ the second that Dean answered the phone call from his father. He should never have driven away from Sonny’s while Dean wasn’t okay. He should have…. Castiel should have insisted that he be allowed to stay, to watch over him, to make sure that Dean had someone there - that Dean knew he could talk to him. That Dean knew that Castiel would do anything within his power to make it okay, that he would… Castiel would -_

_Dean is gone. Dean is missing. Dean left._

_Gabriel hasn’t heard anything from Dean either. Hester calls Sonny back and tells him that none of them have heard anything and to call with any updates, whatever time of the night. Castiel calls him and calls him but Dean doesn’t pick up and he doesn’t show up at the Milton’s like Castiel was half expecting him to and -_

_Hester spends the rest of the night sat on the edge of his bed, smoothing a hand over his hair, watching him watch his phone with everything in suspension._

_She draws the line under him missing school. She insists that she will call him immediately if she has any news on Dean. She assures him that she is sure Dean is fine and that they will hear from him soon. She says that Dean is very troubled, but he loves his brother and he would not just disappear._

_All of that makes _sense_ , except Hester didn’t see Dean’s face when Sam said those things and Hester doesn’t know Dean like Castiel knows Dean. Hester doesn’t know that everything in Dean has been pulled taunt, ready to snap, for as long as Castiel has known him. She doesn’t know that Dean is stubbornly not discussing things. That he doesn’t eat properly. How he carries his worry about Sam. How he carries everything so, so heavily._

_Dean answers his call when Castiel’s stood outside his first class and Castiel’s heart stops._

_He is _not okay_ but he called, he called, and he gives Castiel an address. Dean’s phone is nearly flat and he’s checked into a motel and he’s struggling, but he called and now Castiel knows where he is._

_Castiel doesn’t even think. He turns on the spot, walks away from his classroom, gets into his car and drives._

*

It was easier, he thinks, when his father made his decisions for him.

*

“How is he?” Castiel asks, phone wedged under his ear as he gets himself a coffee from the Yale food hall. He hasn’t asked for a sufficient length of time that he can allow himself this. Whether he should still feel this concern or not is irrelevant to the fact that he _does_ feel it. His new Yale-therapist is just as into him acknowledging his emotions as the last and this one is very committed to him focusing on feeling _and_ expressing his emotions. Asking Gabriel about Dean is expressing his emotions, however frustrating those emotions may be.

“Cassie,” Gabriel says, voice pulled taunt, “Do you really want to keep doing this?”

“Yes,” 

“He's fine,” Gabriel says, “He's Dean; he eats, sleeps, drinks, pines after his little brother, writes sonnets about his car.” Castiel waits him out. “We had lunch today.”

He wants to ask whether he ate enough. He wants to know what he ate and how he ate it and whether he’s sleeping and how regularly he’s managing to see Sam. He wants to know whether he’s staying in contact with Sonny and whether he’s less worried about money, now. We wants any minute detail he can get his hands on to devour and keep and hold onto, but that isn’t healthy. 

“What did you talk about?” 

“You, actually.” Gabriel says. He’s reluctant to acknowledge it, clearly, which isn’t surprising. Gabriel has made it quite clear that Dean has not acknowledged his existence and has been steering him into other avenues of conversation since September. The fact that they stumbled across Castiel as a subject of conversation does not fit in with Gabriel’s usual rhetoric. 

“I,” Castiel begins, fumbles with the coffee, stops, “Did he ask about me.”

“Not exactly, Cuz,” Gabriel sighs, “He wanted to join the ‘rents and me for Thanksgiving. Him and Sam. They had some duo-Thanksgiving plan, but his oven broke like two weeks ago and the landlord is dragging his heels fixing it blah, blah.... I had to tell him that Casa Milton is full for the festivities and he stared at his coffee for a whole minute and said he figured you weren’t gonna be coming home. Then he stared at his coffee some more and asked how you were doing.” 

“What did you tell him?”

“That if he wanted to know he should _text_ you. I draw the line at spying for both of you, Bucko, and you started asking first.”

“He was quiet.” 

“Level four Mangst,” Gabriel says, “So, I told him what dates you were touching down in Kansas and told him to call you.” 

“What?”

“Look, Cuz, this pining routine is bumming me out, it’s bumming you out and it’s bumming Mr Stoic Man Pain out. You tried your weirdo not talking break up and I don’t think it worked, so maybe he’ll call you. Maybe he won’t.”

“I don’t know whether I’m ready to speak to him.”

“Then you don’t answer, Cassie.”

“I certainly am not ready for him _not_ to call me.”

“Cassie,”

“Gabriel, I don’t know how I feel about Dean currently.”

“I’m not Dr Phil, Cassie, but you asking about him every other conversation is a pretty solid hint.”

“Obviously I still love him, but I - I have a ‘friend with Benefits’, except I am unsure if we're actually friends. Is there a word for just benefits? And I am trying to… to be better, and I don’t - ”

“Fuck buddy,” Gabriel says, “Is the term for _just_ benefits.”

“Buddy still implies a degree of camaraderie.”

“Well, Cassie, unless you're getting down to it in silence, there tends to be something a little friendly about casual sex. Also, you _dog_. How long has this been going on?”

“Several weeks.”

“Hey, is it Meg?”

“No, Gabriel,” Castiel says, sighing. “Meg is my friend. She stores her alcohol under my bed because her roommate is a thief. She - Mick is my rebound according to her design.”

“So you're,” Gabriel says, “Bouncing back?”

“Back to what?”

“Point, Cuzzo,” Gabriel says, “Look, I didn't mean to interfere with Dean I just… Your wordless break up was possibly the most unhealthy thing I've ever witnessed and last week I deep fried a doughnut, twice.”

“Doughnuts are already deep fried.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel says, “Cassie, I'm not saying you should get back together, I fact I don't think that's a great idea at all, I just think you should talk, but if you want me to text him right now and tell him to leave you the hell alone-”

“ - don't,” Castiel sighs, “I will leave it up to Dean to decide if he wants to call me.”

“It's always up to Dean,” 

“The wordless break up was my idea, Gabriel.”

“Oh I know Bucko, that thing has you written all over it. Doesn't mean Dean had to be dumb enough to go with it.” 

“Gabriel, how is Anna?” Castiel asks, adjusting the phone under his ear and taking a seat with his coffee. 

“She’s… okay,” Gabriel says, sighs, “She stopped taking her anti-psychotics, looks like, buuut… Mom went to visit, talked to her. She’s on furlough for Thanksgiving, so that’ll be fun.” 

“I don’t think furlough is the correct term,” Castiel says, “I’m glad she’s doing better. How’s Hester?”

“Looking forward to seeing your sorry ass, Cassie.”

That, he doesn’t doubt.

* 

Dean sends him a text message saying _can we talk when you’re back?_ three days before he’s due to fly back. 

Until the point that he received the notification he didn’t know what he wanted, but as he reads over Dean’s words everything in his head becomes quiet and clear. He wants to see Dean. He wants to talk to Dean. He wants to know what Dean wants to talk to him about.

Castiel has no idea what he wants to say, but he knows he wants a chance to say it.

* 

Gabriel gives the full story about Anna on the way home from the airport. Castiel knows the history because Hester explained it to him shortly after he moved into the Miltons and he knew, too, that Anna was supposed to be home this summer and instead spent the majority of the time in hospital. In terms of the general curve of her health, Gabriel thinks this is just a minor blip following the summer. She pushed herself back into art school too quickly, the pressure got too much and she stopped taking her medication. It strikes him as Gabriel delivers the update that he is an exceptionally good person: he is solid, steadfast and loyal, just like Hester.

“And Mom,” Gabriel continues, “Is fine, so you don’t need to worry your little cotton-briefs over that, Cassie. I know she’s been bugging you a lot with all the phonecalls but, hey, you kind of earnt it, and she has a control thing.”

“A control thing?”

“It’s a Novak trait. Your Dad had it, too, except her version is getting freaked out when people she loves’ problems are outside if her control. _Like_ Anna’s mental health and your not answering her calls.”

“Hence, the plan.”

“Exacta-mondo,” Gabriel says, “So you’re going to see Dean. When?”

“Tonight,” Castiel says, his stomach knotting together at the thought, “His apartment.” 

“Okaayy,” Gabriel says, “Well, be safe.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, irritably, just as they pull up outside the Milton’s house. 

“I meant the drive over there, Cassie. Nothing sordid at all. You’re in my room,” Gabriel says, “Anna’s reclaiming her digs. Mom wanted her to have it, for obvious reasons, so… turns out, I come home from the weekend and get relegated to the couch. My life sucks.” 

“Have you been home much?”

“Only when needed,” Gabriel says, voice light as Castiel takes his bag out of the trunk and brings it into the house. “Guess you wanna borrow my car too, bucko?”

“I, yes.”

“Fucking liberty,” Gabriel grins, before chucking him the keys. 

* 

Castiel is not prepared for the rush of sentiment that hits him when Dean opens the door. He is… he is _Dean_. He is _Dean_ from his plaid shirt to the way he looks at him with his green, green eyes. He looks good. He looks _well_ and - this was all a terrible idea. This was a very, very bad idea. Castiel can’t… he’s unsure whether he can handle this.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, which seems to snap Dean out of his reverie and has him stepping away from the door to let him in.

“Cas,” Dean exhales and _dammit_ , the way Dean says his name is unhelpful, unneeded, unnecessary. He should have ignored Dean’s message, because now he is Dean’s apartment and he doesn’t know what to say, or do. “You… hey,”

At least Dean looks equally affected.

“How are you?”

“I, yeah,” Dean says, gaze following him intently, “I’m okay. You... Are you… okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, swallowing as he looks at him.

“Maybe we should...sit,” Dean says, gesturing, nervous.. Dean is exquisite. He is lovely and Castiel is an idiot for believing he had enough handle on his feelings to have an honest conversation about his feelings, whatever his feelings actually are. _Dean_.

Castiel sits down on Dean’s sofa. 

“How’s Sam?”

“He’s good,” Dean says, looking down at his hands and then looking back at him, expression warm and complicated and intense. “He’s liking high school. I was, uh, trying to drive him into school every day but it… it was too tight, so now he’s on the bus. How’s… how’s Yale? You liking your classes?”

“Yes,”

“You got a roommate?” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Why did you want to talk to me?”

“I,” Dean begins, then his expression crumples, “I just wanted to… not seeing you, it -”

Knowing that Dean has been missing him too does not make him feel any better about the fact that Castiel has been missing him, too. It causes a lurch of something painful somewhere around his kidney because it means that all of this has been utterly pointless. His throat tightens, too, because, because, Dean hasn’t said ‘I miss you and want to get back together’, he’s barely said anything at all.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t said anything because there is nothing to say that changes anything about their current situation. At the end of their talk, he will still live over a thousand miles away and he will still be broke and he will still not have the capacity to commit to their relationship. Nothing has changed. Nothing _can_ change. This whole ‘talk’ has stemmed out of them both being weak and missing each other too much to keep away from each other. 

He doesn’t want to talk to Dean. He doesn’t know what he’d say, anyway. He doesn’t have the right words. 

Castiel reaches forward, clumsily, and kisses him with intent. 

It takes Dean a few seconds to catch up but then he _really_ catches up, grabbing a handful of his ass to pull Castiel onto his lap, wrapping his Dean-arms around Castiel’s back and pulling him close, close, closer. 

It didn’t used to be like this with Dean. It wasn't frantic, with Dean tugging at his clothes, deepening every kiss, all of him balancing on a nerve ending. Dean would _let_ him set the direction, more often than not, as to whether they would kiss and kiss, aimless, or they'd pick up momentum and tumble into something. Sleeping with Mick has highlighted the _caution_ in it all. The fact that Castiel was new to all of it and fumbling his way through, with Dean re-navigating and never quite pushing. It's not that all those encounters with Dean were not satisfying, because that's not how it felt or what it was, it's just that it was about more than satisfaction. Closeness and newness and the loveliness of having Dean, shirtless and pliant and flushed, there and vulnerable.

Sex with Mick is chasing pleasure, getting to an end point, learning to to draw it out or arrive quicker. It is both fun and empty and it has made him wonder _why_ Dean touched him like this was a first for him too, when he had enough sexual experience in his history to take the lead. On a surface level, sleeping with Mick had been more physically gratifying, even if he'd swap all of it to hear Dean exhale his name. 

_This_ is a distinct and confusing mix of the two, although Castiel is quite sure that that's partly his own doing. He kissed Dean like he was desperate, not for emotional comfort, but physical closeness. He sparked this encounter with sexual frustration and more trajectory than they've ever really began with and Dean just met him in it. Yes, Dean has never kissed him like this, but that is because Castiel has never kissed him like this; like it's about sex, for the sake of sex, and nothing more, except for the fact that sex with Dean could never ever be surface level.

He still learns things about Dean. Dean has had sex like this before; his hands are too practiced at hauling him closer, too deft at settling on his ass, fingers dipping below the line of his jeans before he goes for the fly. He's _better_ at this kind of sex than Mick (although it’s fair to say that Castiel will always be biased when it comes to Dean). He's well versed in the rhythm of it, whether that was before Castiel or after he does not know. Dean keeps a condom in his wallet still. He pins him to the sofa with his thighs as he leans over the back of the sofa to fumble with his jacket and retrieve it, while Castiel palms rest on the jut of his hips, breathing. Working on cars every day has filled him out. The soft expanse of his stomach is now muscle. He's strong. His arms have gained definition, strength, solidity. He is beautiful. He is gorgeous as he fixes Castiel with his green, green gaze, one hand with his fingers closed over the condom and the other hesitant, soft, as it trails the skin of his rib cage, abdomen, hip.

This is the kind of Dean he's used to in situations like this. Where he's secure in himself, but steady. Where he'd check in with Castiel head space before he made any further action. The Dean who'd pull away and insist they stop because they hadn't discussed it when they weren't both worked up.

“Are you-?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, surging forward to kiss him again. Dean makes a noise at the back of throat before he kisses him again, fingers in his hair, around his back. Castiel wants, needs, _has to be closer_ , because he has missed him impossibly. Dean may never have loved him, but Castiel didn’t make up the deep well of his loyalty, his inherent goodness, the curve of his lip as he smiled or the way that he’d say the word ‘Cas’ like it contained some precious secret. Dean is enigmatic and addictive and gorgeous and his absence has felt like a constant wound. And now, and now, he’s here and warm and _solid_ , and, regardless of it all, Castiel wants this to be _good_ for Dean. Dean. Dean.

He wants this to stick in Dean’s memory. He wants Dean to run over this memory as often as Castiel inevitably will. He wants this to better than any sex Dean has had before or after their relationship, so that there will be at least one part of Dean he gets to keep. 

Castiel dips his thumbs under the line of his jeans which is cue enough for Dean to break the kiss to the shuck them below the line of his hips. He’s ungainly as he kicks them off his feet in a way that makes Castiel’s chest hum with syrupy, warm affection because _Dean_. He’s dropped the condom in the process but he doesn’t seem to care as he settles above him again, hand cupping his jaw to angle him just right, pulling him into a kiss that demands more. Castiel slips his hands into his boxers because he wants to memorise the hitch of Dean’s breath when he does so, wants to memorise the feel of Dean burying his face in Castiel’s shoulder to steady himself. 

If this is the last time they do this, he doesn't want it to be over a rush of hands and lips and desperation, he wants to draw it out. He wants it to be significant. The real frigging deal; the whole freaking hog, as Dean would say. Their last last time, Dean had made the decision that he would be on the bottom and prepared accordingly; this time, Castiel has taken him by surprise. He's taken _himself_ by surprise, even, because this was not his intention when he came here, and yet he's been too nervous to eat properly for days and too keyed up to give himself a moment peace, too consumed with rethinking what he could say.

Castiel untangles himself slightly and presses the condom into Dean's hands.

“Two minutes,” he says, voice rough, then picks his way across the room to Dean's bathroom.

Dean mutters a swear word that sounds more delicious than any word Castiel’s ever heard as he shuts the door behind him.

He’s quick because he doesn’t want to give Dean the time to redirect them into conversation, or into the slow and lovely clumsy sex that they used to have. This is not remotely what he’d intended to happen when he agreed to see him but now it feels absolutely imperative for him to be able to think straight again. Like perhaps this could bring _closure_ , or sanity, or something that will knock him out of the pit he’s been stuck in.

When he exits the bathroom, Dean is attempting to straighten out his bedsheets in his boxers, which is unfathomably endearing. He reddens when he looks up to face him, as though he’s been caught out, even though it’s been clear for quite some time the direction this has been going. The bed is more practical than the sofa, too, which is cramped and uncomfortable with two people occupying it; he cares nothing about the sheets, but that’s just _Dean_. 

What he thinks is _you’ve been eating properly_ which Dean wasn’t for almost the entire time they were involved. What he thinks is _you have been fine on your own_. That three months absence has made no dent on how significantly he’s in love with him. 

Out loud he just says _’Dean’_ and meets him halfway to the bed.

It is, in physical terms, the best sex they’ve ever had. Dean already knows how and where to touch him and Castiel knows, now, how to kiss and move and build heat, momentum. 

“It's,” Dean breathes, after, flushed despite the cold that’s seeping into his apartment. “You know I meant _talk_ , when I invited you over here.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. Dean has gotten new bedsheets. There's a photo of his mother on his bedside table. A photo of Sam framed next to his wardrobe. He has officially moved in and Castiel feels vaguely dizzy, like how he had felt at Balthazar’s party with too much alcohol pumping through his veins. 

“Damn it's good to see you,” Dean say, voice thick, “You know I,” swallows, “It's just damn good to see you.”

“Hush,” Castiel says, leaning over Dean to reach for his phone. “We can talk later.”

He has two messages from Mick which he skims past, discomfort settling under his skin, to find Gabriel's contact details. He thumbs out a short message about his whereabouts - still at Dean's, staying there - with the knowledge that if he picked up on the difference, Dean must have too. He must know that Castiel has been sleeping with someone else. He must have known that the second Castiel kissed him with bite, intention and more practice than he'd ever had previously.

“Sleep,” Castiel says, dropping his phone onto the bed without reading the messages from Mick.

He doesn't sleep. Dean does. He falls into it peacefully, beautifully, with contentment written over his face. He falls asleep with a hand outstretched, half reaching for his own.

Castiel slips out of bed at two am. He detaches the key to Dean's apartment from the loop of his key, sets it on the bedside table next to Dean and leaves his apartment.

Dean calls him at 8am the following morning, then 11am then again three days later. Castiel let's each one roll to voicemail and delete the messages without listening to them.

*

_He's hated this classroom ever since he watched Dean breakdown after Henriksen tried to contact has father, but he's not surprised Dean retreated here. Dean is achingly sentimental about the strangest things. Currently, he wishes he’d never followed Dean into the room, because he… he doesn’t want this to be happening. He doesn’t want this. He’s graduating today and he’s so - he’s so furious at Dean, and he doesn’t want to be because there’s not enough time to be angry at Dean, but he can’t help it. He is angry and worried and confused and he has no idea what to do with any of it._

_“I don’t want to talk about this at all,” Castiel says, voice sharp, his grip on Dean’s hand not loosening._

_“Fine,” Dean snaps, “Then just, listen. Hear me out for two minutes because… if we’re going back to plan A and you don’t wanna talk this out, that’s fine, but this is important because I don’t want you carrying shit. You, Cas, you have done a lot for me. You have been there and I appreciate that more than I know how to tell you, but… I will be okay without you.”_

_It feels a like someone has tricked him into swallowing a knife. It feels like Dean has dropped his chest from a great height. It feels like he has just become to shatter._

_Outloud, he says “I’m glad we cleared that up.”_

*

Castiel drives back to the Miltons and thinks _I will be okay with out you too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because who doesn't love angst?


	3. Chapter 3

Gabriel wakes up when he’s locking the front door to the Milton’s house during what he’s been lead to believe is called a walk of shame. Castiel’s hands fumble on the keys and he drops them, twice, because the weight of them without the key to Dean’s apartment is all wrong. He’s a mess of adrenaline and shaking hands and, somewhere in the middle of it, Gabriel jostles awake.

_What did he just do?_

“Hey,” Gabriel says, half asleep as he sits up on the sofa. He flicks one of the lamps on before squinting at him through the gloom. “You’re back.”

“Yes.”

“You talk?”

“No,”

“You got full sentences rattling round in there, Cassie?”

“I, no,” Castiel settles on, sitting on the edge of the armchair and staring at the point just above Gabriel’s shoulder. None of the past few hours feels _real_ anymore, except for the part where it seems like the most real thing that’s happened in months. 

“Oh-kkaayy,” Gabriel says, “You slept together?” Castiel nods. Gabriel does not look surprised. He made a joke about it before the fact and Castiel did tell him he would be staying at Dean’s and it’s now half past two in the morning, so the lack of surprise is a given. It still doesn’t help.

“You wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head at that, because he doesn’t want to push too hard at any of it. He suspects that if he does something will crumble and collapse, he just doesn’t know what it is. He feels closer to crying than he has in three years. 

Gabriel pulls his sheets up around his knees and looks at him for a long few minutes.

“Want to watch a movie?”

Castiel doesn’t think he could sleep right now if he tried. He doesn’t have the capacity to shut off his brain and he certainly doesn’t want to retreat to Gabriel’s room and spend the rest of the night dissecting his actions and second guessing himself, or over thinking every minute thing about Dean’s existence to feed the irksome part of himself that’s maddeningly in love with Dean Winchester. A _movie_ sounds like a good distraction from the mess of his own head. 

“Something with superfluous explosions,” Castiel says, after a while. 

“ _That_ I can do,” Gabriel says, making room for him on the sofa and turning the TV on. “Fucking liberty, Cuzzo, chuck me out of my own bed and _then_ half throw me off the sofa. I got superfluous explosions and unnecessary half naked women; explosions and aliens, explosions and car chases, explosions and the kind of plot that’s so bad it’s funny,”

“The latter is fine,” Castiel says, “No to aliens and to the unnecessarily underdressed women.”

“I can probably dig you out some half naked men plus explosions, but that’s a little more niche.” 

“ _That_ is not my issue,” Castiel says, sitting down gingerly and watching as Gabriel scrolls through Netflix.

“Oh?”

“I’ve concluded I’m _bisexual_ if that’s what you’re pointed ‘oh’ was asking.”

It’s the first time he’s used the world aloud in relation to himself, but he’s quite sure it fits. He’s not sure _why_ he never thought about it before, but he hadn’t and now he has. As a conversation topic, it is not as distracting from _Dean_ as he thought it would be. 

“Uh-uh, Cassie, I thought you were telling me you were attracted to extraterrestrials.” 

“You’re an imbecile.”

“We should get some movie-snacks. I’m thinking candy.”

“I don’t understand how you haven’t dissolved your teeth,” 

“It’s a talent,” Gabriel throws back, settling on a movie Castiel has never heard of and turning the volume right down.

“Please don’t tell Hester I slept with Dean,” Castiel says, his voice smaller than he was expecting it to be, “She’ll worry or she’ll be disappointed and I…”

Gabriel sighs. 

“Okay,” He says, “But _only_ because I shouldn’t have told him to call you in the first place and I feel guilty as hell, not ‘cause I think it’s even adjacent to a good idea. Although, frankly, Mom isn’t _dumb_ Cassie. Look - one more question and I’ll drop it again. Are you okay?”

Castiel smells like Dean and he has absolutely no idea how he feels. He’s more confused and frustrated by the unfathomable mixture of feelings sitting in his gut than he had been previously, and now there’s guilt and anger and regret all marinating too. He’d been in Dean’s apartment and it had become crystal clear that he did not have the capacity to handle this situation: Castiel doesn’t have the right words, or the right people skills, or the right coping mechanisms. It was all _too much_ and too _everything_ and he didn’t know what to do, so he left. He just _left_.

Castiel shakes his head, just slightly.

Gabriel throws his blankets over both of their shoulders and hits ‘play’.

It is a truly terrible movie. 

*

He sleeps late the next morning and wakes well after the Thanksgiving preparations have begun. 

“Can I help?” He asks blearily, squinting at Gabriel and Hester moving around the kitchen in sync. He doesn’t understand how _Gabriel_ , who put the sequel to the movie on after Castiel went to bed, can appear to be this awake. He suspects sugar must be largely responsible. 

“No, Castiel,” Hester says, hands settling on his shoulders, “You rest. Coffee?” 

“Right,” Gabriel scoffs, “So _I’m_ the slave and everyone else is free and clear to slob around. Have a pancake, Cassie, take _my coffee_. What do I matter, huh?”

“Your coffee is undrinkable due to the sugar content,” Castiel says, “But I appreciate your offer. Perhaps you could make me one instead.”

“Unbelievable,”

“Hey, Castiel,” Anna says, looking up from the table and smiling slightly. She arrived after he went to Dean’s last night so he has yet to speak to her. He hasn’t spoken to her for a long time, in fact, and has seen her even less. Since moving in with the Miltons and taking their room, he has spent four days in her company when she came home from college last Christmas. 

Last Christmas was difficult. Anna being home was a reminder that he was never supposed to be part of this family unit, however much that is not Anna’s fault. He has always _liked_ Anna, but he’d settled into a rhythm with Hester, Inias and Gabriel just before Anna landed in Lawrence and he was reminded that _he_ was the add on. He spent the whole period stilted and quiet and very aware that he’d taken over Anna’s room and pushed her out of her home. He missed his father and he felt the familiar displaced feeling when they went to see Balthazar’s strand of the family that he’d hoped might disappear now he lived in Kansas. He’d just felt _sad_ and selfish for not being more appreciative of everything that was being done for him and he had been unable to mention it to anyone _because_ it was shitty and unreasonable of him to feel that way.

He skipped family visits to Anna on that basis. He had preemptively informed Hester he might stay in New Haven for at least some of the festive season (before his minor breakdown and their deal), to avoid feeling it again. He had been factoring in that it would be difficult. He hadn't factored in a run in with Dean right before it when he finally did face her.

Currently, Anna is poured over her sketchbook on the kitchen table. She looks smaller than when he saw her last, but she is still beautiful. Her hair is a darker shade of red. Her pencil is poised above paper, sleeves pushed up to expose the faded zig-zag scar winding up her arm that landed her in hospital in the first instance. 

“Hello, Anna,”

“Good to see you not taking any of Gabriel’s bullshit,” 

“I am _oppressed_ ,” Gabriel all but yells in the background, as Castiel takes the seat next but one from her.

“You develop a certain immunity after a while,” Castiel says. Anna smiles. “What are you drawing?”

“I’m designing christmas cards,” Anna says, her arm blocking his view.

Castiel is not the best at reading people, yet he can see from the curve of Anna’s arm that it is private and he probably shouldn’t have asked. He swallows and pulls out his cell phone to once again wonder whether he wants to tell Meg that he saw Dean last night, or whether he has the capacity to read or respond to whatever Mick had to say. He settles on staring at his phone and trying to conjure up something to say to Anna that isn’t terrible or awkward.

And then his phone lights up with _incoming call from Dean Winchester_ and his heart stops.

The first call rolled in when Castiel was asleep. He deleted the notification without thinking when he was barely awake. This time, he’s conscious enough to be hit by a wave of _feeling_. Nausea mixed with panic, all of it paralytic. Even if he _wanted_ to answer, he’s not sure he could. Castiel is frozen. He cannot move. He cannot _answer the call_ anymore than he could stay last night. He - he might cry. He felt the pressure of something building behind the back of his eyes when he was sat with Gabriel last night and he feels it again now, but he, he does not cry - not for years - but it - 

“Hey,” Anna says, slipping into the seat next to him and resolutely turning his cell phone face down, “The Christmas cards are family themed. I figured I have _time_ and all, given I’m not being discharged until the week before Christmas. So…” Anna pushes the sketchpad towards him.

Anna has always been very talented. Castiel can remember early Christmases where they’d have to drag her away from her painting to join them for Christmas dinner and years when she’d drawn everyone - including him - a picture for their gift. She has gotten better since he last saw her work, as well as smarter: her drawing of Gabriel playing an angelic horn, four candy canes shoved in his mouth, as he delivers divine judgement on the Christmas gifts is a good likeness and funny to boot; cartoon-Anna is sketching the christmas decorations into existence; Hester is shedding her pantsuit like a second skin to reveal a novelty Christmas jumper underneath. She has only half finished Inias, who is subbing in for Father Christmas and has a half-sketched bemused expression. Castiel himself is crawling out of an advent calendar that boasts days of the week rather than numbers, a very serious deadpan all over his face as he tries to climb out of the ‘Thursday’ slot. 

It’s enough to take the edge of whatever emotion it was that was about to overcome him.

“The angel Gabriel blows the horn to symbolise judgement day, and he’s -”

“Delivering the day of judgement on the gifts,” Castiel supplies, “This is hilarious, Anna.” 

“Thanks,” She flushes. 

“Are you going to add colour?” Castiel asks, because his memories of Anna's art are all about color - bold acrylics, ink and vibrant shades of anything she could get her hands on. He remembers her perpetually having smudges of bright colours across her cheek. His father hadn’t seen the merit of Castiel trying anything creative, so he’d always found it fascinating. 

“Nah,” Anna says, taking the sketch pad back and continuing to add detail to Inias’ face. “I’m trying to strip things back. Things got so complicated, you know?”

“Yes,”

“So I’m dialling down the intensity for a while. Keeping things black and white.”

“I understand,”

“I thought so,” Anna agrees, leaning over her portrait. “Just pretend you haven’t seen it when I get them printed.”

Castiel is quiet for a while as he listens to Hester and Gabriel bicker over the quantity of ingredients that need to go in the Cranberry sauce and says _you included me_ in his head over and over again. Anna, who he has been abysmal too (even just in the confines of his own head), has included him. 

At dinner he says he is thankful for family and Hester smiles at him like she’s proud of his very existence.

*

Mick's messages are about a class he is intending to take next term that he thinks Castiel would enjoy. Castiel tells him he slept with Dean, because it feels rude not to inform him even if there was an explicit mention of no exclusivity.

Mick just wishes him to have a good time with his family and to let him know when he was back in New Haven. That relationship, at least, is refreshingly simple.

*

_They’re into the depths of December when it occurs to Castiel to ask. His father has just come to the end of an impassioned spiel about his current physics paper that he is writing, the kind that Castiel generally loves to listen to because it is something to see his father excelling. Fatherhood he stumbled into, headfirst, but with physics he is exceptional. He exudes knowledge and charisma and authority when he speaks about academics, just as he retreats into himself when he is forced to deal with the rest of the world. Today, Castiel is struggling to pay attention, not that his father has noted. Castiel caught a glimpse of the news and it struck him that it was _mid December_ and there has been no mention of visiting the Miltons or the rest of the Novaks. _

_They didn’t attend Thanksgiving this year._

_“Are we visiting Kansas for Christmas this year?” Castiel asks, when he has come to a pause._

_“Castiel,” His father says, “We’re discussing how the universe came into being here. Why are you asking about Christmas?”_

_“We usually start packing soon.”_

_“Do I ‘usually’ tell you when we’re leaving town?”_

_“Yes,”_

_“Then you can extrapolate that we are not leaving town, which it’s clear that you have already done from the way you framed your question. At school, Castiel, they tell you there are no stupid questions. This is one of the reasons why you do not got to school.” Castiel has heard this speech before, on numerous occasions. “Think before you waste my time with your questions, or ask what you really mean in the first instance. What you are really asking me is why.”_

_“Did you have a disagreement with Aunt Hester?”_

_“We have invaded their family long enough don’t you think, Castiel? You’re sixteen now. It’s time we acknowledge the fact that the ties of blood mean very little. This is your family. Me and you. That’s all you get.”_

_“Were we uninvited?” Castiel asks, frowning at him. He doesn’t usually push his father this hard, but he wants to know. Thanksgiving and Christmases have never been comfortable and he wouldn’t commit to saying that he fit in, it’s just… it was something to see glimpses of how other people lived their lives. It was some glance into something he’d never be capable of slipping into, but even the peripheries had it’s warmth._

_“Do you trust my judgement, Castiel?” His father asks, setting down his pen to look at him in the eye. He has invested more time into teaching him, lately, now that Castiel is closer to understanding the things that he wishes to teach him. He has been teaching him himself. He has spent less time shut in his office, writing or studying._

_“Yes,”_

_“Then you will stop questioning it.”_

_Their extended family is not mentioned again._

*

Castiel tells Naomi about the key in his first appointment back after Thanksgiving. He’s unsure how he has been carrying things around without sharing them for years, because now the very fact that he has mentioned it to no one has been rattling round in his head since the event. He’s unsure whether this new inability to handle things alone is a step forward or a step back, but regardless it has happened. He _had_ to talk about it.

“I'm confused,” she says, lips tilted upwards, “Did you want to hurt Dean by leaving the key?” Naomi asks, blunt and uncompromising. Compared to his last therapist, Naomi lets him get away with less; she is happy to drill down into a point until Castiel has to concede, rather than giving him the space to reason around it. The appointments themselves feel ardorous, like he is mining his life for pain, but that might be because he is trying harder. 

“No,” Castiel says, his throat tightening. “No. I… it wasn’t my intention to _hurt_ him.”

“How do you think he would have felt when he woke up and found it?”

Castiel looks down at his feet. He has been purposefully not thinking about that side of things. He doesn’t want to think about how Dean would feel, alone in his apartment with his oven that does not work that his landlord won’t fix. He doesn’t want to think about how Dean had been trying to take Sam to school every day but had failed and how bitter he must feel about that, before Castiel walked in and made things worse. He doesn’t want to _know_ what Dean said in those voicemails that Castiel never listened to, or think about the way he said ‘damn, it’s good to see you’ in the version of his voice stripped from all his bravado. He - he hurt Dean. He _knew_ that he was doing that, but he had to get away, he had to - 

He cannot quite imagine how he would have felt if Dean had done it to him.

“Castiel, are you angry at Dean for how your relationship ended?”

“No,” Castiel says, because he's not, he's _not_ , because it was his suggestion. He didn't tell Dean he didn't want them to break up at all. It was implicit, but he didn't fight for it. He never _told_ Dean what he wanted. He didn’t verbalise any of it, so any anger would be baseless. He can’t be _angry_ about something that he asked for. He can’t.

“Why are you angry at him?”

“I am not angry at Dean,” Castiel says, his voice heated and passionate and breaking, “I would never intentionally try to hurt him. I am not - I had to leave. I couldn’t handle the situation so I removed myself from it.”

“So you left for self preservation,” Naomi says, “Okay, Castiel, I can understand that. You didn’t feel able to handle the conversation you’d both agreed to have, so you left. Why leave the key?”

Castiel stares at her. 

“Can I tell you what I think happened?” Naomi asks, setting down her pad of paper and fixing him with her eyes, “I think you felt voiceless in this relationship. I think you felt unable to express your point of view and be heard. I think you have made _progress_ in that regard and then you found yourself slipping back into a place where you would allow yourself to be silenced again, but something rebelled against that notion. _Something_ wanted to be heard, so you acted out of your usual lines of behaviour in order to communicate that. Actions are loud, Castiel, but they don’t always say what you intend them to. That’s why you need to learn to express yourself. That’s why you need to _listen_ to what you’re feeling in the first instance.”

*

Anna sends him another version of her Christmas card through the post. In it, Gabriel is attempting to put Castiel on the top of the Christmas tree, just as he did the year Christmas fell on a Thursday. In Anna’s version, Gabriel topples the whole tree over and winds up straddling the tree himself.

Castiel hangs it up in his room and thinks _I have a family_. 

The next day he writes a letter to Anna in hospital. He pours out an apology for encroaching on her world and making his own claim for Hester and Inias and Gabriel. He apologises for last Christmas and the feelings he never told her about previously and he thanks her for the painting she posted to him on his tenth birthday that his father threw away when he thirteen. It is surprisingly easy.

She writes back several days later.

*

Meg is wearing a dress that is shorter than her Halloween outfit, a feet which Castiel didn’t think was possible. She is also raiding the space under his bed to retrieve her alcohol for a party that he isn’t invited to. 

“You’re going to be cold,” Castiel observes, trying to establish how exactly he feels about this snub. Meg has dragged him along to numerous parties he didn’t want to attend. She has coerced into a number of social events and tried to blackmail him (unsuccessfully) into another. He didn’t believe he was exactly enjoying her insistence on his socialisation, but now she has given up he feels… disappointment and embarrassed, like he should have known that someone like Meg would only be interested in being his friend for so long. 

“Not after I’ve put on my vodka-jacket, Clarence.”

“You have a... vodka jacket?”

“It’s an expression, my unicorn,” Meg says, “It means I won’t be cold when I’m wasted.”

“Body temperature drops after imbibing alcohol. The warmth is an illusion,” Castiel says, watching her help herself to one of his mugs and pouring herself some straight gin. “You could endanger yourself.”

“It’s nice when you care, Clarence, makes a girl all tingley. What are _you_ doing tonight? How’s _Mick_ working for you?” 

“He has a paper due,”

“Now that is a tragedy for the ages,” Meg says, “I should go. People to see. Gin to drink.”

“Meg,” Castiel says, watching her retrieve the heels she kicked off her feet when she walked in, “If you are bored of spending time with me, I would prefer it if you just told me.” 

“Wow,” Meg pauses, “Straight for the jugular.” 

“You have been … distant since Thanksgiving and you don’t want me to attend this party. You think I’m dull.” 

“No, Clarence,” Meg says, hesitating with one shoe on, “You just don’t _know me_ , okay? You don’t know what you’re tying yourself to, here. I am a whole lot of hell you don’t want to stick around for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Meg exhales and pulls on her other shoe.

“There’s drugs at this party. Not slap-on-the-wrist kind of drugs, either. Cocaine.” 

“Okay,” 

“Drugs that I was going to _take_.”

“Cocaine raises body temperature,” Castiel says, “You could have a ‘cocaine jacket’, although that implies there is some benefit to taking cocaine, which is a medically suspect position.” 

“Sure there is, Clarence, keeps me from losing my fucking mind. The point is, I figure you for a straight-laced typed and I’m not about to drag you into any of my shit. I’m doing you a _favour_ , see?”

“Why?” Castiel asks, frowning at her, “Did something happen at Thanksgiving?”

“Just my life,” Meg says, with a bitter smile. 

“That happened to me at Thanksgiving too,” Castiel says, “Meg, you don’t have to go to this party.”

“What the hell else am I going to do?”

“You could stay here,”

“Right,” Meg scoffs. 

“You did not have to come here to get alcohol,” Castiel says, eyes fixed on her, “If there is illegal substances, I’m sure obtaining alcohol while underaged would not have been a challenge. You came here knowing that I would ask and that I would try and talk you out of it and give you another option. My therapist says _actions are loud_ , Meg. I’m not going to stop you from doing whatever you choose, but if you do not want to go then _don’t go_.” 

“Your therapist also tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

“No,” Castiel says, “They would probably fire her if she did that.”

Meg laughs. 

“I’m still drinking this.” Meg says, nodding at her mug as she kicks off her shoes again, “And that’s only the beginning of this shit-show, Clarence.” Castiel pulls a Yale Sweatshirt that Hester purchased for him out of his wardrobe and wordlessly passes it to her. “You should stop being so nice, Clarence, it makes me feel like shit by comparison.”

“You are a good person, Meg.”

“Please,”

“I'm serious.”

“I'm a bitch. Maybe I haven't killed anyone yet, but I'm not exactly well adjusted,” Meg shrugs, “There's the drinking and the drugs, sure, but I've been blocking out my feelings with something or other since the dawn of time. I'm not good.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Meg asks, taking another sip of her gin, “You want my autobiography, Clarence? You gonna give up the goods on your personal baggage? I show you mine, you show me yours.” 

“I’m going to get some mixer and a take out menu.”

By the time he’s back, Meg has taken it upon herself to sit with her back against his bed and has poured herself another gin and gin. He sets down next to her on the floor and passes her the soda he managed to find in their suite. Meg dutifully tops up her mug with soda and leans back to look at the ceiling. 

“You should put the sweater on, Meg.”

“Why, Clarence? Is seeing me like this getting you hot?”

“It is _December_ ,” Castiel says, “It is you that I’m interested in getting hot.”

“Oh, you do,” Meg says, pulling the sweater over her head. It’s large on her and she suddenly looks smaller by comparison. Younger.. Some of her bitter edges are rounded off.

“And you are my friend, Meg, being attracted to you would be inappropriate.” 

“That’s not exactly how it works, Clarence, but sure.” Meg says, “Hey, did you say take out?” 

“I did,”

“I _love_ you,” Meg says, “I love food. Let’s get pizza.”

“I slept with Dean two weeks ago,” Castiel says, as he passes her the pizza menu, “I snuck out of his apartment and left the key he gave me on the bedside table.”

“You could’ve at least locked the door with it first,” Meg snorts, “Instead of leaving him to get robbed.”

“It’s on a latch,” Castiel says, “It locks automatically.”

“Well that’s _something_ ,” Meg says, pauses, and then she tells Castiel about her parents. He gets the anecdotes of walking in on her father snorting coke of the maid’s chest; her mother’s willing, vapid ignorance; the expectation of success and the implicit digs about uselessness. She tells him about how it felt to be eight years old and to feel utterly alone in the world and all the ways she has attempted to feel less alone in the years since. About how the word ‘disappointment’ feels to hear when you’re eavesdropping. About how strange it feels that Castiel treats her as a person with worth, not a price yet to be bargained.

It is not the same story, but it echos nevertheless. 

*

_“Castiel,” His father says, “Do you see? You are very intelligent. You are very clever indeed. You are good at all sorts of things, but you find interacting with people difficult and because of that you won’t fit in with the other children your age. They won’t understand you. I want to protect you from all of that - from being teased and not being liked - so we will do it this way. Me and you.”_

*

He needs to apologise to Dean. 

Meg disagrees, but Hannah thinks he should (on the provision that it will make Castiel feel better, with the acknowledgement that Castiel certainly didn't behave well) and Kelly - her roommate - agrees. Naomi stands firm on her position that she is not there to make his decisions for him and that they can discuss whichever option he chooses in his next appointment. He does not ask Gabriel his opinion, simply because he's too close to it and placing him in the middle is unfair. It doesn't seem Dean mentioned any of it to Gabriel (or at least Gabriel hasn’t mentioned anything to indicate that he has), so Castiel can follow his lead.

Castiel needs to apologise. He needs to explain for Dean’s sake and for his own piece of mind. He needs to explain so that the crushing grip of guilt on his lungs will lesson; so that he can go back to holding those beliefs about himself that , whatever the cost, he would not hurt Dean purposefully (however inconvenient that is); that Castiel is a reasonable person with reasonable beliefs and emotions, even if he is not very good at decision making.

*

_Castiel is angry and he has no idea where to put it. He can’t decide whether he is angry at himself or his father or his very existence, but it’s white hot and flooding his veins with nowhere to flow into. He buys himself a coffee because his father calls it ‘frivolous and short-sighted’ and he sits in the coffee shop he fled to, overflowing with rage that he has already shut the lid on to seal in._

_He didn’t have a fair chance. It’s not fault that he failed, it’s because his father pushed him into it. He knows everything about Castiel - about how his mind works and the way he processing things - and he set him up to fail. He knew, when he presented the options, what Castiel would do and he - it isn’t Castiel’s fault. He tried. He fucking tried, but his father -_

_“ - Castiel,” His father says, sitting down opposite him, “You left.”_

_He is possibly to angry to speak. It doesn’t matter anyway, because his anger doesn’t change anything about the scenario that they are currently in, and voicing feelings that have no material effect on the world is a shortcut to another lecture about things that are frivolous and short-sighted. He is angry that his father found him. He is angry that he let Castiel get into this situation and he is angrier, still, that he was right about all of it._

_He couldn’t help. He made it all worse. Castiel made everything worse._

_“Do you see what happens?” He asks, “When you make decisions when you’re emotional?”_

_“Yes,” Castiel says, grip tightening on his coffee, “I understand.”_

*

The things he wants to say to Dean are long and complicated and get tied up in the tangle of his thoughts and issues until one things leaks into another. He wants to absorb every detail of Dean’s existence and yet he wants to build a wall of distance and not step over it. He _wants_ caring about Dean so much to stop feeling like walking around with a knife in his side, but the thought of not caring about Dean at all is hateful. He wants to tell Dean how much he hurts and how much of that is Dean’s fault and he equally does not want to upset him. 

Naomi suggests that he writes down what he wants to say before he calls him, but it is much harder than writing to Anna had been. He crosses out almost as much as he writes. He blacks out ‘I love you’ as soon as he’s written it and nearly tears the paper into pieces in the moment after ‘did you love me?’ falls from his pen. He leaves ‘I’m sorry’ and he leaves ‘I did not want us to break up’, but it’s all inadequate to explain why he left. 

He writes _I am finding it difficult to cope_ and _I don’t know who I am_ and _I missed you_. He spells out a long explanation for the insecurity that has been gnawing at him his whole life and he drafts out a sprawling sentence about why he kept so much of what happens in his head locked up and buried that he knows that he could not say, because Dean would carry it and hate himself and he has enough burdens to bare. He blames Dean and he apologises in the same sentence and none of it helps, not really, because none of it is getting any clearer. 

And so he puts it off. 

He cancels on Mick because he feels entirely too raw to engage in casual sex and arranges to join Hannah and Kelly ‘marathon watch’ a TV show he doesn’t understand, as not to drown in his own head again. It is moderately successful, even if he doesn’t shed the pressure of it all off completely. 

*

He calls Dean from the airport another week and a half later. 

Castiel is not really expecting Dean to answer and he still doesn’t know what he’s intending to say, despite having his physical list memorised and compartmentalised and dissected, repeatedly. He doubts he would answer if he was Dean. By this point, he is convinced that Dean abhors him and will never speak to him again, but Dean _does_ answer on the fourth ring of Castiel’s first attempt to contact him since Thanksgiving.

He answers with a curt ‘hey’ that makes Castiel’s chest construct painfully, because Dean is upset. Castiel knew that would be the case, but it’s something else to hear it so loudly in the formation of his first word. “Cut it out, Timmy. Sam will you -” there's background shuffling, a brief snippet of conversation, Christmas music, then a door shuts and it's quiet. “Yeah?”

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, chest aching.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice barbed, complicated and _damnit_.

“I’m,” Castiel begins, then falters, “Where are you?”

“Sonny’s,” Dean says, “It’s this whole fake Christmas thing. I’m… right now, I’m camped out in his study wondering why the hell you’re calling me.”

“I’m in Philadelphia,” 

“Okay,”

“At the airport.” 

“Well, okay, Cas.”

“It’s a stop over. My flight to Kansas City is in half an hour, I… I will be in Lawrence for a week.”

“Coming home for Christmas, huh.” Dean’s voice is flat and unforgiving, but Castiel very much doubts that means that Dean will not forgive him. Dean has loyalty in spades. His commitment to others is astounding and he lashes out when hurt. Castiel knows that. It doesn’t help.

“Perhaps we could try that _talking_ thing again,” Castiel says, phone pressed to his ear in the airport coffee shop, chest hammering. 

“You,” Dean begins, then stops. He’s silent for a very long time. “You really wanna talk?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Dean’s voice teeters on a knife edge, then breaks into a soft anguished hue that makes Castiel want to rip his skin off for causing it.

“You bailed on me, Cas,”

Castiel shuts his eyes.

“It wasn’t my intention to do that,” Castiel says, “It has been… difficult, these past few months. I have - I have struggled and I… I missed you too much.”

Dean audibly swallows.

“Okay,” Dean says, “We’ll talk.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, a warm, tight feeling seeping through his chest.

*

He talks a reluctant Gabriel into lending him his car and settles for an innocuous six pm weekday visit that he is positive cannot slip into an overnight stop, all arranged by text after Castiel has landed in Kansas. Gabriel tries to talk him out of it, but neither Hester nor Anna say anything about the subject at all. He writes his list out again before he goes and texts both Meg and Hannah before he gets in the car for both of their versions of a pep talk. 

Seeing Dean again still manages to cause shockwaves through to his bones. 

Dean is exquisite in the way that he answers the door with his guard up, before his expression shifts into affection, and Castiel is lost. He's unsure how he managed to stand it when he saw Dean every day; the rush of longing, the slight nausea in his gut, the insatiable urge to reach forward and kiss him.

“I bought beer,” Castiel says, holding up the six pack of beer that he asked Anna to purchase for him and trying to look like his heart isn’t trying to digest the rest of his internal organs.

“Well hello to you too, Cas,” Dean says and, damnit, Castiel has missed that nickname. Dean steps aside from the door looking more sure of himself than he had last time, which should be strange given the context. Castiel has set up the parameters of this visit, though, and anger is probably less complicated than whatever drove Dean to contact him in the first instance. 

“It’s cold,” Castiel frowns, as he steps inside. 

“Ah, crap,” Dean says, “I forgot to warn you - heating’s bust but it’s…. You get used to it.”

“You mean _you become numb_.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean says, watching as Castiel sets the beer down on his table.

“My roommate insists on sleeping with the window open,” Castiel says, “With the sage argument that it is _his_ side of the room, despite the pertinent point that it the same air.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “So you do have a roommate.” 

“Yes,”

“And you actually wanna talk about that, this time,” Dean says, expression hardening briefly as he heads for his kitchen cupboards and pulls out a bottle opener. 

“My understanding is that small talk is supposed to make the large talk less awkward,”

That wins him an almost smile, before Dean catches himself and hands him an open beer with a flat expression.

“So. How is the roommate?”

“He is _awful_.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, the ghost of a smile flicking over his face a second time. Considering how affected Castiel is by Dean’s everything, Dean is making a valiant attempt to maintain his status of being standoffish (then again, Dean never loved him, so there is every chance that Castiel no longer has an effect on Dean at all). Castiel is sure that he can push past it. He is sure that he can navigate them through enough conversation that they’re both comfortable again, and then he can explain. And _then_ he will be able to say at least some of the hundreds of things that he would like to say to him and the lists and the anxiety and the overthinking will be justifiable. 

_Castiel can do this_. 

“He cannot grasp my name. He has spent the last month calling me _Casper_.”

“Seriously? How hard is _Castiel_?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “You habitually called me by a nickname after our first introduction.”

Dean flushes slightly and shifts his grip on his beer.

“I, yeah,” Dean concedes, “But that’s, uh -”

“ - it’s okay, Dean, I have always liked the way you say my name.”

“See, you can’t just say shit like that,” Dean says, but his expression has softened a little more.

“If it helps, my best friend from Yale calls me _Clarence_.”

“Clarence,” Dean smiles, “Huh. Can kind of see that.”

“You think I look like a Clarence?”

“Seriously?” Dean says, “He did tell you that it was a reference, right?”

“She,” Castiel corrects, “What reference?”

“Oh, no _way_. This is too good. You just - okay,” Dean says, digging out his laptop out from under his sofa and balancing it on his coffee table (a new addition since Thanksgiving), “It’s the right time of year and everything.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, as Dean types something into his laptop and turns the screen to face him, “We’re watching a movie?”

Dean’s expression crumples. 

“We don’t...no. I mean, _no_ , but this is where the Clarence thing comes from. If you wanted to know. Not the time, frigging _obviously_ because you’re here ‘to talk’ not to shoot the shit and whatever the hell else we’re doing here.” 

_That_ is a good point.

“How are you, Dean?”

“I’m,” Dean begins, then exhales sharply and looks away, “I’m fine, Cas. It’s all - work’s great, Sam’s great and everything else kind of sucks. _Christmas_ can go fuck itself and my landlord is a goddamn douchebag, but it’s all…”

Castiel’s chest constricts. The thought of Dean hating Christmas and being stuck in this cold, damp apartment with him being unable to do anything to help hurts, except that the fact that it hurts flares up a wave of frustration too. It’s all so _confusing_ and he has no idea what he wants to do about any of it and he - 

“It’s a wonderful life, Dean,” Castiel deadpans, then leans forward and hits play.

Dean smiles, broad and captivating, before he stands up to pull a thick grey throw from under his bed.

“Just to be clear,” Dean says, as he chucks it in Castiel’s direction, “Sam bought that. Not a damn thing to do with me.”

“It’s nice that your brother doesn’t want you to freeze to death,” Castiel says, pulling it around his legs, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.

“Oh yeah,” Dean mutters, sitting back down heavily, “Sam’s a treat.”

“Is he doing well in school?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, with his familiar proud-brother expression falling into place, leaning back on the sofa to watch him rather than the movie beginning in the background, “Kid’s a bona fide genius and, get this, he _runs tech_ now. He is willingly spending time with theatre geeks and watch frigging _Fame_.”

“I like musicals,”

“You would,”

“Dean, there’s sufficient blanket for both of us.”

“Dude, it’s a _throw_ ”

“I’m unsure if that makes it more manly,” Castiel says, finding himself smiling too despite himself, despite all of it, because this is _so easy_. It shouldn’t be. Nothing about their relationship currently is easy and yet, right now, it feels completely natural. Like everything should be. Like they are supposed to be doing this.

“Shut up,” Dean says, unfolding Castiel’s half of the throw and pulling it over himself. The sudden injection of warmth from Dean’s proximity has him feeling heddy and foolish; like he could just lean over, reach out, touch him. Castiel probably should not have said anything. He should have let Dean be stubbornly cold, instead. “Tell me about this best friend. She nice?”

“No,” Castiel says, mouth dry as he looks at him, half aware that the movie is playing in the background, but utterly ignorant to what has happened in it or _why_ Meg has ever called him Clarence. “That is not the correct term for Meg. I like her very much.”

“Yeah?”

“She tricked me into wearing matching Halloween outfits.”

“You look good, Cas,” Dean exhales, gaze unfathomable and impossibly deep and gorgeous. Castiel feels more in control than last time, even though he’s nowhere near able to really manage his feelings for Dean. He feels… he has more time. He has more time to work out what is going on in his own head. “ _Really_ good.”

“I… I missed you.” 

“Damnit,” Dean says, close, both of them watching each other with their backs against the sofa.

Castiel isn’t sure which of them moves first, or how it happens, except that if last time it was a quick, sudden surge of _something_ , this time it is slow and inevitable. They are staring at each other, greedily, long and drawn out, and then they are kissing. 

It is easier to pour out everything into the kiss than it is to voice them out loud. It is so, so much easier to pull Dean closer to express the deep pang of longing in his gut, to tangle his fingers in Dean’s hair than to say _I miss you_ and to fall into the comfort of _Dean, Dean Dean_. He’s aware, this time, that he’s going to regret this. This isn’t what he intended to happen, once again, but he wants it. He _wants_ the way Dean’s thumbs tracing his cheekbones makes him feel - even if it’s temporary - and he wants Dean’s lips tracing down his neck and pulling his shirt over his head, exposing him to the brash cold of Dean’s apartment. He wants _Dean_ as he has always wanted Dean, even if he also wants to yell at him and he wants to hate him and he wants to miss him less. 

He wants Dean’s breath hot on his skin, with Dean’s throw tangled around their legs, with his lips and his eyes and the way he mutters ‘Cas’ like he is revered and like Dean has wanted this and missed this just as much as Castiel and, currently, he _does not care_ that it’s all gone to shit and that he doesn’t get to keep any of it.

Castiel wonders, idly, if accidentally engaging in oral sex with your ex boyfriend is less of a monumentally bad idea than penetrative sex.

*

After, they are both quiet as the reality of what just happened settles over them. Castiel is quite sure that Dean, too, hadn’t intention this to happen either, but he doesn’t know what to think of that. He’s not entirely sure what he thinks about _any of it_ , but he -- he has his list. He wrote it down. He can _speak_ about this and he can be heard and he can deal with this situation, because he is in this situation, and he does not have the luxury of vanishing himself from it again.

He is not sure that Dean would forgive him for that twice. 

“It’s cold as balls in here, Cas, I'm not gonna be offended if you put your clothes back on.” 

“This wasn't on my list,” Castiel says, after he’s pulled his sweatshirt back on and pulled the throw around his shoulders. The cold is beginning to seep into his skin again, now. 

“Your list?”

“I wrote down what I wanted to say to you.”

Dean’s shoulders sink and his mouth pulls down into a smile that lacks any warmth or joy.

“Right,” Dean says, “I got a - I got one of them oil radiators stuffed in my closet. I can...” he stands up, pulling on his hoodie on before heading to his wardrobe and dragging out the heater.

“Why didn't you mention it before?” Castiel asks, frowning as Dean plugs it in, every inch of his body language reverting back to how he had been before Castiel had spoken; tense, guarded, ready to lash out.

“Cause it eats money and I was pissed at you and I had no idea how long you were gonna be here. If you got a goddamn list, then I figure your brain freezing over ain't gonna help. Give it five minutes.”

“If it costs -”

“-forget it,” Dean snaps, “It's on. You wanna talk, then talk.”

“I believe you said you wanted to talk first,” Castiel hedges.

“No way. After last time you were here, no way.”

That is reasonable. Castiel deserves to have to be the one to back peddle and begin this conversation. 

“I - I need a moment.”

Dean just nods, not looking at him, and gets himself another beer.

Castiel retreats into Dean's bathroom to remind himself of the list and to splash water on his face. He forces himself to breathe and to remain in the present. He rereads the messages sent to him by Meg and Hannah and he closes his eyes and reminds himself that _he can do this_. 

Dean is not looking at him. He's sat on his sofa staring at his beer, his thumb peeling back the edge of the best label. Dean's makeshift radiator is churning heat into the room and Castiel has no idea where to start. 

“Did your landlord fix your oven?”

“What?”

“Gabriel said your oven broke.”

“No,” Dean says, short, “My landlord didn't fix my goddamn oven.”

“I,” Castiel says, throat painful, “I was upset and I didn't want to have another conversation where you broke my heart. I - I didn't know what to do.”

“You sure as hell didn't have to do _that_ ,” Dean says, “I woke up, alone, and I saw the key and - I called you, Cas. I left you messages. Did you even listen to them?”

“I thought the key wasn't supposed to mean anything.” 

“Did you _listen_ to me pouring out my goddamn soul trying to apologise for whatever it is that I did to make you hate me?”

“You said the _key_ meant ‘jackshit’ so why would my _returning_ the key mean anything?”

“What?” Dean asks, eyes narrowed.

“You _said_ it was just a key, so it is _just a key_. I didn't need it, so I returned it and, yes, I deleted your messages. “

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Well that is _awesome_.”

“I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I left. I never intended to hurt you, but I was -”

“ - upset,” Dean offers, jaw set, every inch of him screaming that being ‘upset’ is an insufficient excuse. Castiel isn’t entirely sure that he’s wrong. It isn’t good enough. He shouldn’t have left the damnable key. He has no idea _why_ he is suddenly using inflammatory anecdotes to justify himself, when he knows it’s not good enough. It was a mistake. It was a mistake because Castiel is a mess, and he is trying, but that doesn't mean he is justified.

“I have not been doing very well these past few months, Dean. I am _trying_ , but -”

“ - being upset doesn't give you the right to treat people like crap.”

“And being homeless didn't give you the right to determine the entire course of our relationship without consulting me.”

Dean stops short. 

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You decided that we were going to break up. You didn't consult me. You didn't care that I was there missing you - “

“Right. Missing me. Well, you can't have missed me that much.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You didn't exactly wait around before you had someone else lined up, right? That guy who was texting you last time you were here that I ignored like a schmuck, even after… I _asked_ Gabriel.”

“Gabriel told you -” Castiel begins, red hot anger beginning to simmer in his gut.

“ - He didn't tell me shit, Cas, the panic in his face answered for me.”

“You had no right to ask for that information.”

“You know what,” Dean snaps, “I do. I do because, apparently, I'm your Kansas booty call, and that means I get to ask if I'm your freaking bit on the side now.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“No,” Dean snaps, his expression set, “No. I'm just working with the information I've got here, Cas, trying to work out what the hell is going on in your head.”

“You think I would be in a relationship with someone and _cheat_.”

“If it smells like a duck,” Dean snaps, “Are you sleeping with that guy?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, because he refuses to lie, because he has no reason to, because Castiel has done _nothing wrong_. “His name is Mick and we have relatively frequent casual sex.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Now I get a name to add to the visual. Fucking _A_.”

“And I suppose your righteousness about my sex life means you've been entirely abstinent?” Castiel asks, except he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t _want to know_ because he’s unsure of his capacity to handle the answer and he’s aware that it is nothing to do with him anymore. Dean doesn’t owe him anything in that regard, but now he’s angry and _emotional_ and _none of this was on his list_ but Dean’s geared up for a fight and Castiel can’t help rising to the bait. Dean is _angry_ and he knew that - Castiel knew that - but he did not factor that in when anticipating how this conversation would go. 

“Oh yeah, buddy, I was a goddamn monk, right up until after Thanksgiving when I called a royal fuck it.”

_That_ is painful. A sharp, sudden pain like a slap, that leaves his being humming with the shock of it.

“You slept with someone to get back at me?”

“You know what, Cas, this breakup was hard on you? I get that, but it wasn’t a fucking joy ride for me, either. I've been _alone_ in this damn apartment, with your goddamn shadow in every shitty inch of it. You were here, Cas, all the damn time and then you were just gone and I’m… I’m just here, without Sam, in this piece of shit town, in this crap apartment while everyone else moves on. At least you got to go somewhere. You get a roommate and friends and classes and maybe your dad was just as much of a goddamn bastard as mine, but at least when he fucked off he left you with your college fees paid and money in the bank. It wasn't _good_ for me either, Cas.”

Castiel really, really wishes that Dean had not mentioned his father. 

“I'm not talking about our break up being bad for me, Dean, I'm talking about this relationship being bad for me.” 

The moment hangs in suspension until suddenly he’s _half yelling_ and there are regrettable, barbed words falling out of his mouth that he didn’t realise he had the capacity to say. 

“Our relationship was _about you_ and about your pain and your burdens and it was _bad for me_. It was bad for my self esteem and my view of myself and my ability to cope and establish my identity and everything that I needed to do. _You were bad for me._ ”

Dean’s paused with his mouth slightly open, slack, and he stares at him. An apology is already on the tip of his tongue, because he didn’t mean it, he didn’t, he didn’t _mean it_ except that it’s true. It _is true_ , but -

“Then what the hell are you still doing here?” Dean asks, finally, with his jaw squared and his gaze stripped of emotion or vulnerability or warmth. 

The answer to that is far beyond his idiotic list. 

He leaves before he can break anything else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanannanananananana ANGST TIME.


	4. Chapter 4

The Milton’s commit to Christmas.

Castiel has known this for a long time, because he has visited them at Christmas for as long as he can remember, but they were always fleeting visits; they’d stay at a hotel and drop by intermittently, with his father giving him one of his usual pep talks about the Miltons not really being family before they walked into the Milton’s warm, light flooded rooms. 

It seems that Hester combats any difficult situations by becoming more aggressively Christmassy - with Anna only just released from hospital and her consistent worry about Castiel, Hester has hung even more Christmas lights, assembled a nativity scene in the window and purchased a significantly taller tree. The pottery angel (in Inias’ likeness) tree topper that Anna made is balanced more precariously than usual due to the additional height. It is all bright and joyful and exactly the opposite of how Castiel feels as he pulls up outside after leaving Dean’s apartment block.

The family car is absent, but he can see Hester through the window and can hear her humming a tune he recognises as a Christmas song (only because she has sung it before) as he unlocks the front door to let himself in.

Castiel has officially been back in Lawrence for two days now, but it feels like much less than that. It feels like he touched down moments ago and he is still trying to adjust to suddenly cohabiting with people who actually want to speak to him and talk to him, unlike his roommate who is both unpleasant and low maintenance. Gabriel requires a much higher degree of patience by virtue of actually wanting to speak to him, as fundamentally good as Gabriel is. Hester is very _chatty_ too. Inias is the only one to allow him to ruminate without input. 

Hester sets down the casserole dish she’s holding to look at him. 

“Hello Castiel,” She says, “The other’s are at Walmart to get ingredients for the gingerbread house and eggnog.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, shedding his coat and eyeing up the staircase to Gabriel’s room where he might be able to think. He does not know what he needs to do right now to feel okay. He had time in the car to slip into a state of _calm_ , but he needs to process what just happened: the way Castiel’s anger shocked him into action, Dean’s cold, hard expression, the biting chill of his apartment. Dean kissing him and asking about his roommate. Dean trying to maintain aloof and then Dean’s hurt and bitterness. Castiel yelling at him. 

“How is Dean?” Hester asks, drinking him in. 

“He,” Castiel begins, then pauses to swallow and blink, because, because everything is awful and _he_ is awful and, and _Dean_. “His heating is broken and he still has no money and I think he's spending Christmas alone and I told him I regretted our entire relationship and I-”

“Oh, Castiel,” Hester says, pulling him into a hug. His father had never been tactile and Castiel didn’t understand the comfort of physical affection before he came to Kansas, but having Hester wrap her arms around him is suddenly everything he’s ever needed. It is safety and being loved. It is the physical manifestation of Hester saying _it is okay that you feel this way, Castiel_ and being able to hear it and understand that she actually gives a damn about it.

“He is miserable and I made it worse,” Castiel says, a confession, with Hester’s arms wrapped around him, holding him together. “Every time I tried to fix it, I made it worse.”

“Breakups are hard,”

“Are they supposed to be _this_ hard?”

“Castiel, no emotions are supposed to be anything; they just are.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing,” Castiel says, as Hester releases him but keeps hold of his arms, her thumbs running over the flesh of his elbows to continue the point of contact.

“One of the things I love about you is your heart,” Hester says, her gaze intense and sincere (a _Novak_ stare), as she looks straight into the mess of thoughts and conflict in his head. “And sometimes all we can do is try until we cannot try any longer.”

Castiel nods, even though he’s not entirely convinced he knows what Hester means, or why his _heart_ is something to be admired. Currently, there’s not much he wouldn’t do to quieten it, or to damper the intensity of his damnable feelings for Dean because… because _Castiel makes things worse_. 

“Can I get you a drink? Hot chocolate? Tea?” Hester asks, finally letting go of him entirely. 

“Tea,” Castiel says, more for Hester’s benefit than his own. He thinks he would like to barricade himself in Gabriel’s room and stew in his feelings until any of them make sense, but he’s no longer sure whether that desire is self-destructive or simply his own way of dealing with things. Still, he’s shared enough that Hester will be worried about him and her making him a drink and sitting with him will make her feel better, and Hester is wholly good and worries about him too much. 

They don’t talk for a while as Hester makes his tea and sets it down at the table. Castiel sits and tries not to think of how Dean looked in the moments after they first kissed, compared to the moment after Castiel told him their entire relationship bankrupted him emotionally. Hester finishes cooking her casserole increasingly slowly, until she sets down the dish and moves to sit opposite him.

“Hester,” Castiel says, watching her motions warily, “I don’t want to talk any further about Dean.”

“I want to talk you about something else,” Hester says, reaching across the table to rest her hands over his and fixing him with this look, intense and blue. “I want to talk you about your father.”

Castiel’s instinct is to pull his hands away from her contact and shut down the conversation immediately. He has no desire to talk about his father. It is irritating enough that he cannot stop _thinking_ about his father and he has obediently divulged plenty of his memories to Naomi in his therapy sessions. He is quite sure that after Christmas he will probably tell Meg about some of it, too. He doesn’t _need_ to talk about him with Hester, too, as good as her intentions undoubtedly are. 

“I think it's important.”

“I would prefer it if we didn’t discuss him,” Castiel says, brow furrowing as he looks at her, because this suddenly feels very planned. There’s no real reason that they should all be needed on a trip to purchase the ingredients for gingerbread and eggnog and Hester looks distinctly determined, which means that he has not managed to ease her worry about his welfare. It means she _still_ thinks that he is fragile and cracked, which - although certainly feels true now, with the argument with Dean taking over his mind - he’s not entirely convinced is accurate anymore. He is doing better, if not fantastically. He does not need Hester to talk to him about his father. He doesn’t --

He does not want to do this.

“I don't think it is,” Hester says, “He was my brother, Castiel. I loved him very much.”

“Hester.”

“But that is not to say that he didn't make terrible mistakes, and those mistakes affected you. Please, Castiel, I think you need to hear this. I… I need to tell you this, for me. Will you let me do that?”

Hester is all wide imploring eyes, with her emotions so close to the surface that Castiel can almost feel them radiating off her. She has wanted to do this for a while, in person, when they were alone in the house. He can tell. _Hester_ , who worries and cares and loves him indiscriminately, enough that Castiel really feels part of this family unit. 

He’s not sure he has it in him to refuse anything she asked of him (especially so soon after the hurt he has caused Dean), so he nods. 

“I don’t know how much of this you know,” Hester says, her eyes wide and earnest as she keep her grip tight on his hand, grounding him. “About your father’s life before you were born. He was… he has disappeared before, Castiel. He was troubled and deeply flawed and… after our father died, he disappeared slowly. He fell out of contact with all of us, deliberately and methodically, and by the time we heard from him again you were born and your mother was dying. He - I discovered after he disappeared this time that… that during that time that we were out of contact, he had another family that he walked out on. None of us knew about this, Castiel, although I think your mother did. He - you have a brother. A half brother.” 

This declaration is almost a relief, because he _knows_ that. He had more or less processed it at the time, so revisiting it now is relatively painless. It does not make him happy, but he _knows_. 

"I know," Castiel interjects, throat slightly raw, "Last year one of the social workers left her office to take a call from her husband and I read my file.”

Hester’s expression crumples slightly.

“Castiel,” Hester says, “You didn’t have to deal with that on your own. I know that you used to idolise your father. I wish - I wish that you would speak to us about how you are feeling, or if something like that happens.”

“I know,” Castiel says, “I… I didn’t know what to say. I think I would speak to you, or someone, now.”

"Do you want to meet him?" Hester asks, "I have his contact details, Castiel, and he told me what happened. He has a wife and a daughter."

"No," Castiel says, on reflex, something in his gut rejecting the notion before he has a chance to really consider it. _No_. No. There is too much going on right now to add any more people into his life. The concept of a brother, a sister in law and a niece is more than he has the ability to handle. “Not, no. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

"Okay," Hester nods, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. "If you change your mind,"

"I will tell you if I change my mind.”

“I didn’t tell you because I felt like you had enough on your plate,” Hester says, “And I...I didn’t want to shock you into realisations about who your father was before you were ready. Do you understand that?”

“Is that everything you wanted to discuss with me?”

“No,” Hester says, “Castiel. I think it is important for you to have context about what happened. Not because I think you should give your father any allowances or to give him excuses about his actions but… this was a big event that shook up your whole existence and I want you to be able to rationalise it. I want… There are some things you don’t know that I… I need to tell you and some of them I should have told you a long time ago, like about your brother.” Hester pauses and inhales a lungful of air. “What do you know about your mother’s illness?”

“Very little,” Castiel says, not blinking, “Cancer. She died when I was six months old.” 

“She was in remission when she became pregnant with you and she refused treatment when they discovered the cancer was back, because she was told she might lose you. I don’t - I don’t believe that was a decision your father was very happy about, but your mother was determined.”

This, he did not know. The timeline of his mother’s illness has always been sketchy. His father gave him some breakdown of the facts: that the cancer was first discovered when she was twenty one years old, that she kept having treatment and that it kept coming back. Castiel had never thought to ask where he fit into the picture. It simply hadn’t occurred to him.

“They gave her a terminal diagnosis several months after your birth and at that point your mother… she tracked me down. Your father must have mentioned me, our childhood, because she found my contact details and she wrote to me. We never met, Castiel, but we emailed and I do feel like I knew her. Parts of her, at least. She she sent photos of you - of the three of you - and she told me that she was dying and that she wanted me to reach out to my brother. She wanted him to come _back_ to the family. It had been years since we’d heard from him but... your mother - she knew your father very well, down to his bones - and she knew that he would need help. She wanted him to have a family again. She was exceptionally good, Castiel, you should know that.”

He does know that. His father had said much the same. Every time he told Castiel a story about her, he would have a sudden flare of righteous anger about everything that was taken from him when she died. He has known, instinctively, that everything would have been different if she had lived.

“She left instructions that I be invited to her funeral. Your father was waiting for me at the door and I held you while he delivered her eulogy. It was good to see him. It… it felt like he might come back to us, that at least something good might have come out of the tragedy of your mother’s death,” Hester says, eyes focused, not relenting as she looks at him and weaves this story of his personal history that he does not remember and knew nothing about. 

He can imagine Hester holding a version of him that cannot speak and doesn’t know that his life has changed irreversibly, close and tight, pressing a kiss to his forehead. It’s more difficult to imagine what his father would have been saying in the background.

“In those first few years, he visited many times and we saw lots of you, and then he retreated and there were only Christmases and Thanksgivings. I asked if we could visit. I asked if he would visit more often, Castiel, but the more I pushed the more he retreated - so I let things be. I made allowances for his grief and let him set the pace of all of our relationships with you both. I had reasons that stem from our childhood but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret intervening earlier.”

“Your father - he liked to be in control, especially in his relationships. He struggled to manage them. He was very hurt by our father growing up. I can tell you more about that, if you want to know, but you have no obligation to listen to me explain why my brother did what he did and his reasons aren’t important right now. I just want you to know that I worried about you. Your mother had wanted us to be involved because she was worried too, about what he would do without her balancing him out and... and year after year, you became more reserved when you visited. You said things about yourself that I couldn't stand, Castiel. You... I was concerned and so I pushed. I should have - I should have told you this before you came here, because you should have known."

"Hester."

"When you were sixteen, I told him he had to let you go to school. I said that... I said that if he continued to restrict you and to shelter you from the world that he would lose you. I said that the first breath of freedom you had, you would distance yourself from him. That you would realise how selfish he was to keep you to himself. I told him that he was making a mistake, Castiel, and that he was hurting you. I told him that one day you would go to college and that you would be lost to him. I threatened to involve the authorities because I was concerned about your welfare. He changed your telephone number. I... did it, Castiel, I called social services and I told them my concerns, but they investigated and they said there was nothing to report. He didn't visit again. I don't know what he told you, but I -- we wanted you to come visit us at Christmas. We all did. I wrote letters. I emailed. I tried to get your new phone number, but he didn't... he never contacted me again. That is my fault, Castiel, and I am deeply and impossibly sorry.”

Castiel suddenly has a crystal clear image of his father shutting down his questions about why they weren’t going to visit the Miltons for Christmas anymore. He can see him, expression set, intense-blue eyes firm, as he once again makes the decision to seclude himself from everyone who cared about him, justifying it to himself in Castiel’s name. His father did not like anyone telling him what to do. As an academic, he flitted from publication to publication and from university to university in order to avoid clashing with authority. He cannot imagine how his father would have taken his elder sister telling him how to parent.

Hester is nearly crying. She is still clutching his hands with her eyes shining and her gaze is steady by sheer willpower alone.

“I'm telling you because I want you to know: your father didn't leave because of you. He loved you fiercely and jealousy and destructively. I believe he left because he knew that you were too kind and thoughtful, too intelligent and sweet, too caring and original and far too special for him to keep you. He knew that when you went to college you would no longer admire and revere him and he couldn't handle his mistakes. He left because he was a coward who wanted his aloneness to be on his own terms.”

“I understand if you are angry at me. You have every right to be. I thought I was acting in your best interest, but sometimes I wonder if perhaps my difficult relationship with my brother affected my decisions. I… I love you very much Castiel. I have always wanted good things for you.” 

Hester does not let go of his hands until she finishes, her gaze is thick with emotion and she looks more like Castiel's father the she ever had before this way: serious, imploring, eyes begging of him to listened and understand.

Then she lets let's go and he instantly feels oppressively lonely.

“I think I want to be alone,” Castiel says, eyes dropping to the table.

“Okay,” Hester nods, smiling even as a single tear runs down her cheek, and Castiel hates that he has made her upset even if he knows that this is not his fault. “I will keep the others out of your way when you return. Let me… Let me know if you need anything.”

Castiel nods at her before heading upstairs and shutting Gabriel's bedroom door behind him, barricading himself inside. His being is full up and overloaded. He lies down on Gabriel's bed and his head feels blissfully blank; no Dean, no Hester, no weighty ghost of his father, just Castiel.

He sits and he waits for any of this to make sense for a long time. He shuts his eyes and labels each of the emotions that are sloshing around his gut: anger; guilt; betrayal, understanding and, finally, relief.

Gabriel knocks on his door some time later.

“Hey,” He says from the doorway, subdued enough that Hester must have pre-warned him about their conversation, “Mom wanted me to check if you’re okay.” 

“Does your car have a cassette player?” Castiel asks, sitting up to frown at him.

“Whelll…. Dean fixed it up, so yeah.”

“Can I borrow it?”

“Yes?” Gabriel says, watching as him as he stands up to dig into the bottom of his duffel bag, the place he originally dropped Dean’s damned ‘road trip’ mixtape into once they reached the first motel of the journey to Yale and where it has lived ever since. He has never listened to it before and it suddenly feels utterly imperative that he does.

It was too raw at the time. He didn’t want to know what songs Dean would have picked for him and he didn’t _want_ to spend the entire length of the tape debating what Dean meant and _why_ he meant it. It seemed inadvisable to listen to something that might cause an upsurge of emotion strong enough to floor him while he was driving and has had no inclination to listen to it since.

He doesn’t drive anywhere. He just sits in Gabriel’s car, fixed up and put together by Dean’s hands, and listens to it in its entirety. His head is still very quiet. He doesn’t take in any of the lyrics, but he lets the sound of it all flood the car. He doesn’t know any of the songs except for knowing that he’s probably heard them before in Dean’s car, or his apartment, and that if he dug hard enough into their history he is sure that they would be deeply sentimental.

There was a time when Dean was persistently trying to break up with him when he said they both had too much going on individually for their relationship to work.

Sitting in Gabriel's car listening to the soundtrack Dean picked for him to drive away to it washes over him, lukewarm and unpleasant, but no longer a shock: Dean was right.

(After, he walks back into the Milton’s kitchen and he gives Hester a hug and he tells her that he loves her for her heart, too. He tells her that he would like to continue therapy but that he does not want the Miltons to pay for it. He says that it seems quite fitting that his father’s money should pay for it instead).

*

For Christmas, Anna sketches out another Milton family cartoon. This time, she has painted Castiel’s eyes a bright, vibrant blue; her hair a bold red; Gabriel’s doughnut a vivid pink; Hester’s jumper a sap green and Inias work brief case a royal purple. In his Christmas card she writes _”maybe some colour is good, after all.”_

Last year, Castiel was miserable and Dean called him halfway through. This year, Castiel plays Monopoly with the Miltons, eats until he feels nauseous and passes the mixtape Dean made him to Gabriel for safe keeping. This year, he slots into their family traditions and he feels like part of a whole rather than an outsider. He feels, absolutely, that he is supposed to live with the Miltons and spend the latter half of Christmas Day with Balthazar's side of the family. It’s far from perfect, but it’s good nevertheless 

*

Meg is waiting outside his front door when Castiel gets back to Yale, leaning against the wall looking exceptionally irritated.

“ _Finally_ ,” Meg says, rolling her eyes as Castiel retrieves his key, “You've been away forever and Hannah refused to come down here till you actually got back.”

“Hannah is coming here?”

“Beer and movie night, Clarence. She's bringing her dishcloth roomie and we're having a freaking party.”

“Am I supposed to be aware of this?” Castiel asks, lugging his bag over the threshold of his door as Meg follows behind him.

“You are now,” Meg says, following him into his room and depositing herself on his bed and beginning her rant about her family Christmas, which continues until Hannah and Kelly have arrived with beer and a selection of movies that Meg vetoes entirely. 

“Did you apologise to Dean?” Hannah asks, a little while after they have dropped the concept of the movie for now (they reached no consensus at all and in the end Kelly threw her hands in the air and told both Meg and Hannah to shut up and stop bickering) and have settled on just catching up about their Christmases. 

Castiel frowns.

“Did you sleep with Dean?” Meg pitches in, quirking up her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Castiel acknowledges, because _that_ at least is an easy answer. Whether what he did actually counted as an apology is another question entirely. 

“You slut, Clarence,”

“Again, huh?” Kelly asks, her mouth twisted into sympathy. 

“In my defence, he is unreasonably attractive.”

“Really?”

“Really, Meg, he is… exceptional.” 

“I think we need to see this. Someone hot enough to bring the great _Castiel_ to his knees.”

“We were on the sofa, not our knees, but you're referencing the correct sexual act.”

Meg laughs out loud and Kelly hides her face in her hands to try and suppress a giggle, which makes him oddly pleased. He _can_ be funny when he’s intending to be. It’s good to know that. 

“Do you have a photo?” Hannah asks. 

“Why would I have a photo of Dean?”

“Because he was your boyfriend, Clarence, and people do sentimental shit like that. Save a picture of the two of you at prom as your background.”

“Dean didn't take me to prom. I went alone,” Castiel says, “By which I mean - I do not have any pictures of Dean.”

“Facebook,” Meg declares, leaning over him to retrieve his laptop out of his bag, turning it on and enter his password.

“I don't have Facebook.”

“Yeah, what gives with that?” Kelly asks, opening herself another beer.

“My father disagrees with social media as a concept. He says it's narcissistic and destructive.”

“My middle names,” Meg interjects. 

“I thought you lived with your aunt and uncle?” Hannah says, with no trace of acknowledgement that this might be a difficult conversation, because Hannah is very blunt like that. Meg’s hands still on the keyboard as she turns to look at him, because he never did go into it fully.

“I suppose I have no idea whether he _still_ says that social media is narcissistic and destructive, but I don’t imagine his opinions on much has changed since he left.” He is met by quiet from his statement, which is unusual. Neither Meg nor Hannah are the ‘wait out the conversation type’. “He ‘walked out’ just over a year ago. I advised one of my tutors after he’d been gone for a week and at that point I was placed into foster care until my aunt took guardianship. I very much believed that he would come back, but that seems unlikely now.”

“That's rough, Clarence,” Meg says, “Men are pigs.”

“He was not a good father. I haven't done a thorough assessment yet, but I'm relatively sure him leaving in the best parenting decision he ever made.”

“So you and Dean - you have this whole bonding over absent fathers thing, as well as him being smoking hot?”

“I,” Castiel begins, then considers, “You don't like him in principle, but he - he is good. He has unreasonable depths of loyalty and he is exceptionally easy to please considering how strongly he feels rejection. He is self centered out of necessity, he builds too many walls and he is utterly infuriating for numerous reasons. It seems unlikely that I will cease to be frustratingly and completely in love with him any time soon but… He is not good for me in my current state and I, in my current state, am not good for him.”

“Well fuck me, Clarence,” Meg says, “That must have been one profound blow job.”

Even Hannah cracks a smile at that one.

“Well, Castiel, you seem pretty _zen_ about it, so that’s good.” 

“Is _’zen’_ one of the stages of breakups?”

“Sure,” Kelly says, “Right after _denial_ and before acceptance.”

“I would imagine zen is the equivalent of acceptance,” Hannah says.

“Okay,” Meg says, gesturing at the laptop, “I've got your date of birth, gender, hometown, where you're studying. Now - political views.” 

“Meg.”

“Huh, why am I asking? I know this crap. Religion?”

“I don’t think I agreed to join Facebook,”

“Did you agree to any aspect of our friendship, Clarence?” Meg asks, “So I’m skipping religion which, funnily enough, _is_ my religion. Interested in?” Meg prompts, turning to look at him pointedly. 

“Men and women.” 

“Harrah! the crowd goes wild!” 

“Mazel tov.”

“You are all deeply annoying,” Castiel voices, although he cannot deny that he is enjoying himself. As good as it was to spend time with the Miltons, it is good to be _back_ in a place where _he_ is beginning to make sense. Even if being at Yale has been difficult, it has been good for him. It was good for him to have to face things on his own, rather than have Hester face it all for him, and good to be away from Gabriel and away from Dean to figure things out. 

He watches Meg add the three of them as his friends, then does something on her phone that means she can use a picture she took of the two of them weeks ago as his ‘profile picture’. She adds Mick, too, along with a number of people he’s met through Meg, or through classes, that come up as suggestions.

“Your cousin’s surname?” Kelly prompts, taking over the laptop to continue increasing his repertoire of friends, while Meg mutters something about ‘serious tagging’.

“Milton,” Castiel says, the nods, “That’s Gabriel. You should add Anna too. His sister.”

Kelly nods and navigates to a page about his family. 

“Holy crap, Castiel, are these _all_ your cousins?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “You can add them. Charlie Bradbury, too.”

“Is _this_ your Dean?” Kelly asks, hovering over a post the Charlie had included him in.

“Yes,” Castiel says, throat tightening slightly, “Do not add Dean as a friend or notify him of this in any way. Where we left things, that is the least helpful thing you could do.”

“You do not have to be friends to stalk,” Hannah says, very seriously.

“Spoken like a true maverick,” Kelly says, “He _does_ have pretty good privacy settings though. Is this Charlie a mutual friend?”

“Yes,”

“Well she’s accepted your request fast,” Kelly says, switching back to her page and beginning to scroll through.

Charlie posts a great deal of content onto Facebook, as it turns out, and Kelly has to scroll back to the summer to get any success.

“Gotcha,” Kelly says, laptop balancing on her knee to allow Meg and Hannah the opportunity to lean in and look at the screen.

It is a good photograph that Castiel has never seen before. It’s from a rare day in the June where Dean was both not working and not attempting to generate distance between them, so agreed to Charlie’s suggestion that they all head to Clinton State Park for a picnic despite all of it. In the picture, they’re both sat on Charlie’s picnic blanket, enthralled in whatever conversation they were having, utterly unaware that Charlie was taking photos of them. They are not touching in any way, but it’s achingly clear that they are together from the proximity and the way that Dean is smiling at him as he speaks. It hurts because they look happy, even if Castiel has the context to know that they were not. At this point in their relationship, Castiel was frustrated at him for so many different reasons, angry, but had given up on addressing any of it; he was too committed to seeing the relationship through to acknowledge how utterly miserable it was to deal with Dean being so hot-then-cold, when they were practically living together, when they were clinging to each other despite being utterly damned.

Kelly clicks through a few more until she settles on one from the same day of Dean on his own, which apparently gives a better view for them to assess him.

“Damn,” Meg says, “Good work, Clarence.” 

“He is very aesthetically pleasing,” Hannah says, “Although he is _too_ pretty.”

“You guys were an attractive couple,” Kelly says, clicking through more pictures, as Castiel’s relationship as-captured-by-Charlie flicks across the screen; Dean touching his arm, Dean’s hand casually resting on his shoulders, Castiel tucked under his arm, Castiel’s stiff body language indicating that they’re arguing, Dean at the post-graduation party Hester threw, expression unfathomable, Dean, Dean, Dean.

Castiel reaches out and shuts the laptop shut with a click.

“I am not feeling _that_ zen,” Castiel says, blinking rapidly.

“Shit, sorry Castiel,” Kelly says, “We’re done, okay? You pick the movie.”

He picks _’It’s a Wonderful Life’_ with a side glance at Meg and it is infinitely better than watching it with Dean would have been if they'd actually watched it, because he gets to watch Meg watch him learn the origin of his nickname. 

*

Charlie sends him a message in response to his Facebook request welcoming him to the twenty first century. She asks how he is and he tells her that he is getting there, but hasn’t had the best few months since he saw her last. Charlie tells him that she hasn’t had the best of times of it either, which is why she has been a bit remiss in staying in contact with him, but that she misses him and that they need to catch up soon.

It turns out that Charlie and Dorothy broke up due to the long distance, just as Dean always said that they would.

He does not know how to feel about that. 

*

“Castiel,” Naomi says, expression stern, unwavering, “How did you feel when your father left?”

He told his first therapist that he felt _flat_ , but with Hester’s narrative of his life weaving its way through his memories some of the sheen of the way he repackaged things for his survival is beginning to rub away.

He did not feel _flat_ when his father didn’t show up for that science lesson, he felt _rejected_ and unloved, but he knew what his father would say about that - that it was illogical and unfounded, that feeling that was unproductive and destructive - so he sat there and he told himself that he was simply disappointed. He gave himself a pep talk in his father’s voice: he told himself that the fact that his father loved him did not hinge on whether or not he spent time with him, that there was a logical, factual reason for his absence, that dwelling on the feeling of rejection would only connect this moment to one of the other moments that he felt _lonely_ and hurt, and then he would be strung along by his emotions until they ruined him. He told himself that he was a naturally over-emotional person and that he had to _reign that in_ and he told himself that what he felt was ‘disappointment’ and that he felt disappointment because he wanted to have his father teach him physics, because he enjoyed it when his father taught him physics and nothing further. 

He did not feel _flat_ when he searched the house for some sign that he was mistaken. He felt sheer, unadulterated _fear_ as he realised that his father hadn’t been there - that he’d been gone for days - that he’d taken the cash and the passport and that Castiel was there _alone_. It was more difficult to combat that one with logic, because fear of the unknown is usually rational, and the second he realised that his father was gone his whole world became unknown. He tried anyway. He didn’t say anything to anyone until he could say it without the fear seeping into his voice - _I think my father left_ \- and even then he had to choose the tutor who made him feel the most calm. 

He did not feel _flat_ as he sat with Adina and waited for pizza, social services and the police and he did not feel _flat_ during that night in foster care, or when Hester walked into that office and pulled him into the first hug he’d had in years. He didn’t feel flat. His behaviour all pointed to him _feeling flat_ but he picked that out and arranged it, because he was supposed to feel flat, because that is what his father wanted - had trained him to feel his whole life - for whatever purpose.

He was steady and slow and deliberate with every action and every word because he knew - because his father had told him - that he was _too emotional_ and _not good with people_ and _what are your emotions going to achieve?_ and so re-rationalised all of it into logic and the things he was permitted to speak about in the hope that it would all still make sense, without his father determining sense for him. 

He had never felt _flat_ about any of it. He has never been a level surface. He has never _lacked_ emotion.

_How did you feel when your father left?_

“Lost,” Castiel says, his voice fraught with more emotion than he was ever permitted to feel.

*

He calls Gabriel as soon as his session with Naomi is over. His thoughts are spinning into overdrive, the engine of his head overheating and spiralling out of his control. He feels on the edge of something again, but he doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t really know what’s _happening_ but there are suddenly questions that he needs answering and he needs answers to them now. He needs to _know_. He needs to… he needs to unravel all of it and start again, or he needs some proof that he was correct in the first place.

_He needs to know_.

“Gabriel, what did you say to people when I moved to Lawrence, about me?” Castiel demands, the second that Gabriel picks up. 

“Uh,” Gabriel says, taken aback and infuriating slow to answer, “I said ‘my cousin Castiel is moving in with us’.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “But about _me_ , me.”

“I’m not getting it.”

“To warn them about _me_.”

“To warn them about…” Gabriel says, voice trailing off, “What, Cassie?”

“About how I am,”

“You mean, confusing and vague in conversation?” 

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, frustrated, heart pounding in his chest, everything that he just discussed with Naomi ringing in his ears. He needs Gabriel to catch up with how urgent this conversation is. How vital it is to Castiel understand _everything_ that has happened to him in the past few months and years. “What did you tell Dean about me before we met?” 

“Thaattt you were my cousin and you were moving in with us.”

“You didn’t tell him that I was…”

“Was?”

“ _Strange_ , Gabriel,” Castiel says, finally spilling out of one of Yale’s many buildings and into the cold. It’s a relief to have the bite of it against his skin. It brings a little more _clarity_ to the breakdown he’s not entirely sure he’s having.

“Dean called you strange?”

“No, he - I’m _odd_ , Gabriel, I don’t understand popular culture and I’m awkward.”

“And Dean said this?”

“ _I’m_ saying this and I’m asking how you introduced me to Dean and Charlie so that they were prepared.”

“Cassie, I didn’t say anything. Pretty sure I told Dean to go easy on you and I definitely told him not to hit on you, but that’s it.” Gabriel says and, and, and, he’s telling the truth. He can _hear that_. He can hear that Gabriel is being unwaveringly honest from how confused he is by the conversation in the first instance. That alone might answer his questions, but he needs - he needs to be sure. 

“Why didn’t you want him to hit on me?”

“Uh, because you had a piping hot delivery of abandonment issues on your plate and Dean’s a commitment-phobe who was up to his neck in repression. _Maybe_ I figured anything happening there wouldn’t end well, but that’s off topic Cuzzo. Where the hell is this coming from?” 

“Gabriel,”

“No, Cassie, where are you getting this? What, you thought I was going around warning people that you were some kind of social misfit before anyone met you?”

“I _am_ a social misfit,” Castiel says, because _he was so sure_ , but he’s not anymore. His certainty is slipping. _He just doesn’t know_.

“News to me.”

“Gabriel, I am _too_ intense and a stare too much and I take things too literally and I make people uncomfortable and I am _strange_.” Castiel says, the something building behind his eyes again, because these are Castiel’s truths, except they might not be _his_ at all.

“Who said you were strange?”

“ _You did_.”

“When?”

“You were six.” 

“Holy hell, Cassie,” Gabriel says, “I don’t even _remember_ calling you strange.”

“You - Christmas. You didn’t want to play with me.”

“Uh, _yeah_ , because I wanted to hang out with Balthazar cause he had the good sweets and he was older. Cassie, when I was six I was being picked on at school for being chubby and, oh yeah, I was fucking _six_ \- don’t take it personally.” 

“I don’t - this isn’t what I meant,” Castiel says, his voice quieter now and he’s stopped moving. He’s just _stood there_ in one of Yale’s courtyards, in the cold, with everything he thought he knew beginning to shake from the foundations. 

“Cassie, I honestly don’t know where you’re getting this stuff from. I’ll cop to you being awkward and yeah, you’re intense, but that’s part of your Castiel charm. I didn’t talk Dean into liking you by prepping him to look past the pop culture reference thing and, I don’t know, put you some kind of filter on your Castielness. He _just liked you_. Charlie _just liked you_. Ash just liked you. Hell, Cassie, Kali liked you more than me half the time. And you know what? No one talked Meg into using your bedroom as her alcohol store except you. No one _tricked_ Hannah into being your friend. Your fuck-buddy Rick the Brit, or whatever his name is, didn’t sign up to get boned by you because you’re the only guy in the whole of New Haven he could talk into his bed. You didn’t make any of us uncomfortable except Dean, probably, because _feelings_ make him uncomfortable, generally. Castiel - seriously - you turned up in Lawrence having pretty much only socialised with the rest of the Novaks and the Miltons, ever, and we aint your standard bunch of yobos, and you went to high school and wound up with friends _and_ a boyfriend. There’s not a damn thing wrong with you. You’re not _strange_.”

Castiel is quiet.

“Cassie, is this stuff your dad said to you?”

The things that Gabriel is saying are so tempting to believe. They are much better than all the things that he holds about himself, but they’re too ingrained and he was so, so sure, that he needs to fight for them first. He needs - he needs to be sure. 

“Gabriel, I got in trouble at school because I didn't know you weren't supposed to take food in the library. Everyone else knew that.”

“You sweet talked the cafeteria lady to give you those illicit fries with that intense state, right before that. She liked you. No one _told_ you the rule.”

“I - I got into a fight.”

“Little hazy on the details, bucko, but I thought you were playing the hero there _and_ your Dad just walked out on you. That's allowed. Talk to me - is this from your Dad?”

_Yes_. 

“I,” Castiel begins, then finds a bench to sit and swallows, a strange call settling over him. _It was from his father_. It was never his. He believed it because he was told to believe it. It _was not true_. “He said that's why I shouldn't go to school. That it was best for me to be home-schooled because the other children wouldn't like me, because I was different.”

He hasn’t spoken this out loud before. It wasn’t part of the stories he told Naomi, because it was never part of the facts, or the logic that it used to reason all of it away. He didn’t know it was important. He didn’t know it was relevant. He just thought that it was true.

“That fucking bastard,” Gabriel exhales.

“He said it… He said he was doing what was best for my welfare because he loved me.”

“Cassie,”

“He said it was better for us to stick together because he understood me more than anyone else could. That we were in it together. He said good things too - that I was smart and focused and capable of doing great things as long as I followed his guidance. When I was younger he would… There would be occasions where he would let me make decisions by myself but set me up to fail and then he would swoop in and rescue me and he'd… he'd say that clearly decision making was not my forte so I should leave it to him. He said that I was emotional, hot headed, too willing to commit, that I cared too much about people and causes. Some of those things are true, Gabriel, that's what makes it difficult. I do make bad decisions. I am emotional and I care too much, but it's difficult to establish what he said to me just to try and control me and what he said because he loved me and he wanted to warn me about those parts of myself,” Castiel says, gaze locked on a spot on the floor, as his world-view disintegrates around him again. “I am so confused by all of it.”

“No fucking wonder,” Gabriel say, “It sounds like you’re working it out though, Cassie.”

“It all comes to me in the wrong order. This is not how I thought it happened. I have retold myself the story of my childhood to rationalize it numerous times and I - I don’t know what’s true.”

“I know what’s true,” Gabriel says, “I know it’s _true_ that you’re part of the mother fucking Milton family now, Cassie, that we love the crap out of you; that most eighteen year olds don’t have a damn clue who they are, anyway, and that eating a whole pack of doughnuts tends to make everything that bit sweeter.” 

He does not know much, but he knows with absolute certainty that he is very lucky to have Gabriel in his life.

*

Castiel cries for the first time in three years alone in his Yale bedroom. He cries from the well in his stomach, loud, ugly tears of _hurt_ and _loss_ and the confusion of not knowing who he's supposed to be, and all the sharp edges of the lies he's believed for years. He finally mourns his father: first for him vanishing into dust, second for Castiel's idolised concept of him that never existed. He cries because of the knowledge that those things he carried were not true. He cries because finally voicing it out loud has broken down the barricade he'd assembled to stop himself from feeling any of it. He cries because his emotions matter and because they do have the power to change the world around him. He cries because his father would hate him to do so - would call it needless and overindulgent - and he cries because he _hates_ the man, and then he cries because he doesn't, of course he doesn't. He cries because his existence directly harmed his mother's chance of survival and he cries because Hester's interference might have cost him clearly. He cries because he is infinitely glad that he got out of that environment and for the relief of knowing that Castiel is not broken in the ways that he believed himself to be.

Castiel cries because he is glad his father left and acknowledging that feels like a betrayal.

His roommate enters the room after the sobbing has ceased and he is instead simply sat with tears still running down his cheeks. He ignores Castiel for a few minutes before he awkwardly looks over at him, spluttering a “uh, Cast… Castiel, you okay?”

“I am fine,” Castiel says, because he is, or he will be, and he is at least better than he was.

After that, it occurs to him that his roommate has finally learnt his name which, after the emotional rawness of dragging decades of feelings out into the open, is suddenly very funny. Castiel winds up laughing to himself about the ridiculousness of all of it - of concerning the roommate who has not spoken to him since Christmas - and of how gloriously silly it is for him to be sat weeping to himself for such old hurts. How hilarious it is that the first person to see him cry since he was seven years old is someone who is routinely rude to him.

The roommate looks at like he’s lost his damn mind, which he possibly has, before he mutters a ‘whatever’ and leaves.

When it stops being funny, Castiel pulls out his notepad and writes a new list of things he likes about himself: he cares, deeply, about causes and people; he is committed; he does not understand social conventions in a way that makes his honesty refreshing. He is intelligent. He is non judgemental. 

He runs the other things round in his head that his father taught him - too emotional, incapable of decision making, bad with people - and he holds them against the fact that he has friends who find his choice of words and lack of understanding of some of the nuances of interactions to be part of why they care about them. There is an element of truth in some of them, but some of the others are just lies.

He is, occasionally, too trusting of others’ opinion. 

He writes _sees the good in others_ onto his list.

He holds his pen tight and adds _capable of fierce, insurmountable love_ and _strong_ and, underlined at the bottom of his list _human._

*

Meg shows up at his dorm room early the next morning and actually knocks before walking in. Her eyes almost immediately fall on the list that he tacked up on the wall in between one of Anna’s pictures and her latest letter (that have continued even though she is now out of hospital and able to communicate via any means), but she doesn’t say anything for a long while.

“Look, Clarence,” Meg says, taking in the fact that he’s still in his pyjamas and probably looks terrible, “I’m not so good with the caring-is-sharing shit _but_ your roommate was worried enough about you last night that he stole your phone while you were asleep and called me.”

This is distinctly interesting. Castiel slept heavily, plagued with weighty dreams that were almost more memory than fiction and woke feeling hungover from too much crying. His roommate was not there when he woke up.

“He called you?”

“The bastard has a heart,” Meg shrugs, “He said you were crying. Like, really crying. So - what’s up?”

“My father,” Castiel says, out loud, for the first time in his life, “Was a fucking bastard.” 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“At some point,” Castiel settles on, because he doesn't feel like revisiting it right now. He’s glad that Meg is here though. Is glad that his roommate thought to call her, because he thinks he feels like getting a very sugary breakfast as per Gabriel’s suggestion.

“You should add _nice_ to your list,” Meg says, sitting on the edge of his bed, “All that fluffy, good-guy crap: considerate, thoughtful, _kind_. Except with you it makes me less likely to barf.” 

“Thank you,”

“Don’t push it,” Meg says, giving him a bitter smile, “Get your ass dressed, Clarence, my bastard Daddy’s credit card is buying is breakfast.”

*

He thanks his roommate for his consideration later that day. Utterly bizarrely, it leads them to having the first full conversation they’ve ever managed and Castiel learns that Bartholomew is not as terrible as Castiel previously thought, he is just an only child who is not very good at sharing. They wind up settling on a tentative friendship that makes cohabitation much, much better.

*

Dean told him at the beginning of their relationship that he didn’t have a lot to give Castiel. He told him that he had to focus on Sam, that his life was in turmoil, that he doubted that he would be a very good boyfriend. He said _“I don’t have the luxury of promising you shit right now”_ and he said _“Damnit, Cas, I told you from the off that this is what you got. That I was a freaking mess and this is all I could give you. Why do you have to keep pushing?”_. After his first therapist told him he had low self esteem, he'd asked Dean what he thought about it to reason the diagnosis away. Dean said he didn't know. He said Cas didn't tell him enough. He said with green eyes poised to listen, and Castiel moved the conversation on. Back to Dean. Back to safe grounds.

Dean called him to ask about therapy and Castiel would make sure the conversation drifted back to Sam. He doggedly tried to get Castiel to talk and Castiel would give him meaningless nothings back. He reminded Castiel that Castiel was angry with him when Castiel tried to pretend they weren’t in the middle of a fight. Dean _knew_ there was stuff going on and Castiel shut down every conversation that Dean tried to start about it. Dean tried to talk about their break up again and again and Castiel could not handle it, so he stonewalled any attempt to bring it up. Castiel _knew_ exactly what question to ask and what to say to give as little of himself to their relationship as possible, whilst breaking his back to be there for Dean. He played Dean in conversation by bringing up Sam, or Sonny’s, and the dozens of strategies he devised to avoid Dean from honing in one any of the things that Castiel wasn’t able to deal with yet.

Dean should not have given up fighting him on it. Dean should not have relied on him. Dean shouldn’t have expected Castiel to be there to pick up the pieces. He should have showed up to prom and he should have found ways to encourage Castiel to tell him about himself. He should not have been so absorbed in his own pain that he couldn’t really see Castiel and he should not have told Castiel he didn’t need him and he _should not_ have called him afte the fact ‘to talk’ or agreed to Castiel’s wordless breakup or spent the final months of their relationship with one foot out of the door.

But it is not _Dean’s fault_. Castiel is complicit in all of it, too, and it was messy and painful and it was never, ever going to work.

Once, Dean said that Castiel was the best distraction he’d ever had. He didn’t realise at that time that the same was true vice versa. Dean was the most exceptional, destructive distraction that he’s ever had. 

And Castiel has to let it go and finally, completely, focus on the rest of it.

*

Mick is quiet in the moments after Castiel tells him that he wants to end their friends-with-benefits status with immediate effect, as blunt as he was the first time that they sat down for coffee. This time, Castiel is sure. He is relatively positive that their whole _not-relationship_ has been a good aspect of his life for the past few months, but Castiel needs time to de-tangle his thoughts and work through his issues. He needs to rid his life of distractions and _complications_ and focus on working out who he is. 

It’s almost a shame, because he likes Mick. They have had fun.

“Okay,” Mick nods, eyes settling on Castiel’s list, which has grown by Meg’s suggestions of ‘nice’, ‘kind’, ‘considerate’ and Hannah’s addition of ‘funny’ and ‘empathetic’, before shifting back to Castiel. “You don’t owe me an explanation, but if there _is_ one available…”

“I have low self-esteem,” Castiel says, frowning a little, “I am trying to _not_ have low self-esteem.” 

“I hope I haven’t done anything that fed into that.”

“You haven’t,” Castiel counters, “I just… allowed my previous sense of worth to come from my relationships, and I don’t think _this_ is conducive to me working through my baggage currently. You have done nothing wrong at all. It’s just not right for me moving forward.”

“Good,” Mick nods, looking back at his list, “You know, Castiel, you should definitely think about adding some physical attributes to that.” Castiel cocks his head as he considers that, because it’s a good point. He hasn’t much thought about his physical attributes, in the same way that it had never occurred to him to consider his sexuality in depth until Meg asked him, but it’s naive to think they aren’t important at all. He needs to take the time to _look_ at himself. “And if you’re in the market for a simple, straight-up friendship… I have to say, I like spending time with you. I wouldn’t be opposed to just downgrading.”

In the end, Castiel invites him to join their beer and movie night, which had already expanded to include Bartholomew and Ezekiel (who is in one of Castiel and Kelly’s classes). It requires a little explanation and Hannah definitely does not understand, but he fits in surprisingly well.

It hits him, hard, that it is Dean’s birthday halfway through the first movie. Castiel isn’t sure how the date hadn’t resonated with him before, he it is suddenly very obvious and a very loud in his head.

Castiel hasn’t thought about Dean much in the past few weeks. He has not asked Gabriel about him since Christmas, so he has no idea whether his heating has been fixed, or whether he utterly detests Castiel after their last meeting, or whether he has mentioned it to Gabriel at all, but he is surprisingly okay with that. He would not go as far as saying that he is _over it_ , but the hurt of it all feels less pressing, more inevitable. 

He detests that the last thing that he said was angry and bitter and lacking in context, but he knows equally that everything in their relationship is too broken. In this particular scenario, Castiel probably would continue to make things worse by virtue of caring too much. He would continue to break things and hurt both of them and he does not want that. He doesn’t want to hurt Dean anymore and he doesn’t want himself to hurt over it anymore, either.

_And sometimes all we can do is try until we cannot try any longer._

He is still not quite able to leave the day unacknowledged. 

He texts him a simple ‘Happy Birthday’ before turning off his phone and focusing on the movie and his friends.

Dean texts back ‘thanks’ two days later.

*

In February, Castiel rings Hester before his usual weekly check in to request the contact details for his half-brother. His name is ‘James Novak’ and Castiel spends much of the next week pouring over a draft of the letter he is intending to send.

Recently, he has been sharing much of his life with Meg, Hannah, Mick and the others, but this feels private somehow. He reads some of the letter to Hester over the phone and keeps it in his desk drawer for a long time before he finally makes the decision, walks to the letterbox and posts it.

James (or Jimmy, as he signs the letter), writes back a few weeks letter. His wife is called Amelia and his daughter is called Claire. Jimmy carefully writes out that he has forgiven their father for what he has done and includes two photographs, one of the family that he has built himself and one of himself as a child with their father and his mother. 

He offers Castiel explanations, detail, a run-down of the various hurts and the intricacies of what happened if Castiel should want them. 

Castiel asks for more photographs instead. 

*

Gabriel visits him towards the end of March, partially because he is instructed to do so by Hester and partially out of a desire to see him. He is doing well enough that Hester’s insistence on Gabriel visiting him is unnecessary, but he expected this to happen when he opted not to come back to Lawrence for spring break. It doesn't matter that he is actively choosing to socialise with a wide range of people that he calls friends, that Charlie Bradbury is going to come and visit him, that he has been listening to his therapist and naming and acknowledging his emotions whenever they occur. It doesn’t matter that he is getting better at talking about things when he is upset, or that he is shaken a lot of the lies he carried with him for a long time, because Hester loves him like a mother and her worrying is therefore completely inevitable. 

Castiel has stopped feeling guilty about that.

Besides, he has been looking forward to seeing Gabriel, even though his cousin has more or less demanded to be introduced to Meg and Mick and every other person that Castiel has been ‘tagged’ in pictures with on facebook, which he’s pretty sure means that they will be ganging up on him at some point. 

What he isn’t anticipating, is Gabriel to bring up Dean. 

Castiel has not asked about him since January. Had decided, in fact, that he handled everything so badly that he needed to distance himself from it entirely. Every time he thinks about yelling at Dean in his apartment, his stomach twists uncomfortably and he begins to question things, because _that_ should never have happened. He should never have yelled at Dean. He should have never have allowed himself to be so ignorant to his own feelings that he didn’t realise how truly, deeply angry he was at him until he was yelling. He regrets it, not because what he said wasn’t true, but because he let it get to that point in the first place. 

“I hate to ask, Cuzzo,” Gabriel says, as he tips another sachet of sugar into his cup of coffee, “But what the hell _happened_ with you and Dean at Christmas?”

“Why do you ask?” Castiel asks, carefully, his hands still on his cup. 

“Something he said,” Gabriel says, watching him carefully, “We had breakfast the other weekend, by which I mean he watched me eat a whole stack o’ pancakes.”

“How is he?” Castiel asks, because he’s sure that he’s allowed given the situation. Gabriel bought him up, either, and Castiel hasn’t heard from him since the brief messages they exchanged in January. He still _cares_. He still wants to know. 

“Pretty good, actually,” Gabriel says, cocking his head, “Better than I’ve seen him in years. Borderline happy,” Castiel nods, drinking in the words with another fervor that Gabriel continues: it is good that Dean is happy. Very good. “He’s moved. He’s doing evening classes in some car thing so that he can get a pay rise. He mentioned some chick that I’m pretty sure he’s dating - Cassie which is hilarious, frankly - but that’s not what I meant.”

Gabriel says this too casually, as though he has rehearsed how to bring up the fact that Dean is dating again. Castiel thinks it might be unnecessary. It doesn't cause the same visceral reaction as it would have done even a month ago; it is good that Dean is happy and dating. In an ideal world, he would prefer it if Dean was happy and dating Castiel, but that isn't possible or plausible or even a good idea. He wants to know nothing whatsoever about _Cassie_ or their relationship, but Dean dating itself does not feel painful. It is expected and fine.

“I’m fine, Gabriel, carry on.”

“Okay. He, I didn’t get the full deets, but I’m pretty sure things were _bad_ for a while right after Christmas. I’m talking up shit creek nearly sleeping in his car again, bad, and I asked why the fuck he hadn’t _called_ me for the past three months if he needed help,”

“You hadn’t heard from him,” Castiel says, dread creeping up his windpipe, because _that_ was not supposed to happen. Dean was not supposed to be cut off from his support network because of Castiel. 

“Total radio silence,” Gabriel says, expression almost hard, but curious too, “And he said, I quote, ‘he figured I hated him after what happened before Christmas’ and then moved the conversation the hell along.”

“You’re his best friend.”

“Cassie, he’s not mad at you,” Gabriel says, “He was pretty clear about that point. He said I should tell you that he's not mad at you if it came up in conversation.”

“It didn't - you bought it up.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, “Because _I know you_ , dude, and if Dean figured you’d be guilty enough about whatever crap went down that he wanted me to tell you that he’s not mad at you, then you probably _do_ feel guilty as hell about it.”

“Knowing that he didn't speak to you for months does not make me feel better, Gabriel.”

“That was his choice, bucko,” Gabriel waves this away, “I text him. Didn't even get so much as an acknowledgement that I wished him a happy birthday. I stalked out that damn diner for _weeks_ to catch him on a weekend-shift so I could make him acknowledge I existed - that is so far from your fault. Anyway, it was good for him. The space. I told him you were doing well too - he was happy about that.” 

“We had an argument,” Castiel says, looking at his coffee, processing. 

“I figured,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. 

“I said he wasn't good for me.”

“Well, duh,” Gabriel says, “Cassie. Hear my good intentions here, okay? I know you don’t believe it, but I always thought he loved you. Hell, I reckon he still does, but mostly he just wants whatever shit is best for you and the self deprecating asshole never thought that was him -- and he was right. I'm just saying, Cassie, you don't have to carry that argument with you just cause it's the last time you spoke. You're doing well. You probably didn't say anything that wasn't true, it got messy: forgive yourself. Dean’s forgiven you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, let’s _move the hell on_ \- tell me again why you’re not banging this _Mick_?”

*

He pulls up Dean's context number and texts out _“I'm sorry”_ three days later, because he is. He's sorry for not realising that they were doomed to fall apart earlier; for the barbed words he yelled; for not being able to acknowledge his feelings when there was still time for them; for the guilt and the lack of honesty and all of it. He is sorry that they cannot make it work and that he still feels a pang of longing when he thinks of Dean and he is sorry that they could not make each other happy.

Dean texts back _“me too”_ several moments later. He didn't know that he thirsted for an apology until he received the notification, but it quenches a deep need in his gut. It feels like the apology holds the same weight as his own. It feels like Dean is saying that he is sorry for hurting him, for not pushing him harder to speak about his father, for not seeing Castiel's internal struggles. Like Dean is sorry for the things they said to each other the last time they were in the same room and for the gap in communication. He imagines that Dean is sorry that they never spoke about if Dean loved him and he is sorry that they weren't able to work things out. Dean is not mad at him - has forgiven him, even - and he is sorry and he is doing well. That is sufficient for Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so intense to write idk what to say here, except that the next chapter is mostly all written so should be up soon. 
> 
> Especially because CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS NO WORK YAY.


	5. Chapter 5

Five minutes after Cas walks out of piece-of-crap apartment, Dean moves to turn off the damn electric heater and sits down heavily on the couch they were necking on thirty minutes earlier. He just _sits_ as the heat leaks out of his apartment, minute by minute, and as his fingers go numb it occurs to him that he’s never hated himself so fucking much before in his life.

*

_“I'm not talking about our break up being bad for me, Dean, I'm talking about this relationship being bad for me.”_

*

They condemn Dean’s apartment block in the first week of the new year. He gets a letter through his goddamn letter box that tells him he needs to move out _this_ weekend because the whole damn block has been deemed unsafe for human habitation; it’s structurally unsound, does not meet fire regulations and is unfit for purpose. The letter is nestled between a the gas bill and a new pizza delivery menu and his heart stops.

He calls his landlord, who’s a straight up fucking _asshole_ and says that he’ll pay for two weeks temporary accommodation while he finds somewhere to live but that, after that, Dean’s on his own. He loses his shit because, goddamnit, at least it makes sense why he stopped fixing crap when it broke, which means _he knew_ at least something, and he could have called him rather than shattering his stability with a fucking letter. He winds up yelling down the goddamn phone which he _knows_ is a bad idea, but he’s too caught up in panic and fear to think straight. 

He calls in sick to Rufus and finds himself in an realtor's office half an hour later, legs shaking as he tells her he needs _some-fucking-where_ to sleep that’s available in two weeks and he doesn’t give a damn if it’s apartment share, a shed with running water or miles away from anywhere he needs to be, he just needs it _cheap_ and now. She gets him a cup of coffee as she runs through her catalogue, eyeing him nervously. Apparently, he’s picked a bad time of year to wind up homeless again, because the rental market doesn’t pick up until March. In the end, she manages to find an apartment shittier than his current one, still a studio, half hour drive further away from Sam and work and Bobby, but it’s been empty for three months with not one jot of interest, so they’re pretty damn likely to accept his application. Except, except, the deposit is _more than a month’s rent_ and they need the first months rent upfront, too, and admin fees and an application deposit before they can even hold the application. She knows he doesn’t have the money. She can read it all over his face but she doesn’t challenge him when he says fine, okay, and says he’ll be back before close of shop with the money. She offers him a sad smile and her card and tells him she’ll keep it on hold and that’s - 

The guy at the bank is significantly less helpful. He won’t _listen_ to what he’s saying and keeps regurgitating facts instead: any loan applications take four weeks to process, no exceptions, and they need a permanent address on file _anyway_. Panic is beginning to set into his lungs, now, and he walks out the bank without submitting a damn thing, because he can’t think of a damn reason _why_ anyone would lend him money.

It occurs to him that he paid a deposit for his last place when he’s in the middle of the town centre. His landlord actually answers, which is a bit of a damn shock given how many swear words Dean managed to fit in their last conversation, but is no less of a fucking dick than he was earlier. He quotes his goddamn rental contract back at him, like his home being unfit for human freaking habitation doesn’t break the whole thing to shit in the first place. The contract said he had six weeks to get his deposit back to him and he’s pretty goddamn explicit about how he’s going to use every single minute of that time to process it. His ‘temporary accommodation’ is in one of the motels he used to stay in with Sam when they were pretending not to be homeless. He resists the urge to throw his fucking phone across the shopping mall, just barely, and hangs up. 

He’s sat in his car in the shopping mall parking lot when he remembers the charity and, fuck, but he doesn’t have a choice. He wasn’t… he’s _four hundred dollars short_ and he’d be nearer than that, too, if his baby hadn’t broken down right before Christmas. She’d never been too fond of cold weather and she’d been suffering from a sub-standard spare part he’d bought when they were broke before. He _had_ to fix her, or he wouldn’t have been able to get to work. Then there was _christmas_ and the electric heater he bought after it was fucking clear that his landlord wasn’t going to fix shit, and Sam was still growing and there weren’t as many dinner shifts to pick up over the Christmas period he’s… _four hundred dollars_ and he’s got no freaking idea where he’s gonna get it from. He calls the charity and gets through to the woman who processed his application for funding the first time. His voice cracks and he explains: apartment condemned, two weeks to find a new place, not enough money. She remembers him from before. She read his painfully dislodged words about wanting to set a good example for his brother, but she can’t help him. He is officially outside of their remit. 

She tells him she’ll make some calls and see what she can do. 

Dean throws up the shitty coffee he drank at the realtors in the parking lot trash can.

Dean moves into the motel on Saturday. He does every single fucking thing he can - he tries other banks, other realtors, has an awful, embarrassing conversation with the woman from the first place to see if he can make an exception about the full deposit, spilling his soul on the shop floor. He asks Rufus if he can get paid earlier (Rufus fixes him with a look and asks him if he’s in any trouble; the words stick in his throat so he just shrugs and says _cash flow problems_ like it’s no big deal. As it turns out, the way his payroll system works means it’s actually impossible, so it’s a moot point). He makes another humiliating phone call, this one to Gordon Walker who he meets up with on and off, to see if he can borrow some goddamn cash. He’d have tried Gabriel too, except Cas hates his guts and everytime he thinks about _that_ it feels like his heart is being fed through a shredder and he just… Gabriel is _not_ an option, he’s just not.

He tries _so goddamn hard_ , but he still winds up with nowhere to sleep three nights before his nineteenth birthday.

It’s not intentional, but he winds up driving to Sonny’s with everything he owns in the back of his car. Dean’s not even speaking to Sonny right now - hasn’t since that shitshow with Ellen before Christmas - but the only thing pounding through is head is _Sam, Sam, Sam_. It would have been more logical to pay for another night in the motel himself, even though every single cent he spends is just gonna make it harder for him to get the deposit together, but he just - he needed to see Sam. Needed somewhere to go that didn’t feel like he was chasing his tail, running round in circles, getting tangled into more and more knots.

It’s late when he gets there. Late enough that Dean sits in the front of the car, heart in his throat, and figures maybe he’ll drive out to one of Sonny’s outbuildings, park up and sleep. That he can’t bother Sam now. He can’t make this _Sonny’s_ problem given the hard time Dean gave him last time they were face to face. He can work out a plan in the morning when he’s feeling less like he’s losing his fucking mind. 

“Dean,” Sonny says, stepping out of the front door in his pyjamas.

“Hey,” Dean manages, stepping out of the car. He’s got two hoodies on below his leather jacket. Two shirts on. It’s _goddamn_ cold and… he’s fucking kidding himself if he thinks he can sleep outside in his car, which means he needs to come up with an excuse for him being parked up outside Sonny’s at one AM and leave.

Except, Sonny takes in the crap he threw on the back seat, the fact that he’s shivering and emotional and any excuse he had is ripped from his mouth. Sonny’s smarter than that. Sonny’s _better_ than that, even it’s been made pretty clear to him that they are not on the same side anymore. 

“Come inside, Dean,” Sonny says, mouth serious.

Sam hears something, or wakes up and sees the impala parked outside, and has joined them by the time Sonny’s made them both a mug of hot cocoa that Dean doesn’t want and sure as shit didn’t ask for. Neither of them have _spoken_ yet and Dean’s pretty freaking certain that it should be him who speaks, but he just… 

“What’s going on?” Sam asks, in his pyjama bottoms and a sweater, “Dean?”

Dean’s struck by Sam telling him _you can call me_ and just how much he’s failed fucking everyone by winding up back here with no plan and no _home_ and no goddamn idea what he’s supposed to do about it. 

“They,” Dean begins, word sticking in his throat, because he shouldn’t be putting this on Sam. That was the whole point. He didn’t want Sam worrying about him. He didn’t want Sam to know that, despite it all, he still can’t actually make it on his own, because he… Dean Winchester is bad for people. He breaks them. He uses them up. He can’t deal with his pain and his crap and he projects it hard enough that he drives every single person he cares about away. “I fucked up.”

“Dean,” Sam says, eyes wide, nervous. “Dean, what?”

“I _tried_ , Sammy, but I - four hundred dollars, and…”

“Dean what’s going on?”

“My apartment, it’s -”

“ Did you pay your rent?”

“Yes, _yeah_ I paid my rent and every single fucking bill, but they’re knocking it down and they gave me _two weeks_ and I… I freaking tried, Sam, but they, they want so much goddamn money. They,” Dean says, beginning to calm now, despair seeping in instead, “They put me up in a motel for two weeks, but I’m… it wasn’t enough time and now I’m… I’m out.”

“You’re out,” Sonny says.

“Yeah,”

“I’m gonna get Ellen on the phone,” Sonny says, standing up.

“Dean,” Sam says, blinking.

“I _tried_ ,” Dean says, chest aching, “But it takes four weeks to get a loan and that charity, I’m too, left school too long ago, and I called Gordon and I asked if I could get paid early but it - if I can just get my deposit back from my apartment, then -”

“What about Gabriel?” Sam asks, “Dean, the Milton’s love you, Gabriel’s got a dorm at college. If you could -”

“ - s’ no good, Sam,” Dean manages, “Cas hates me, so I can’t - haven’t spoken to Gabriel since. I can’t.”

“Since _what?_ ” Sam asks, “I don’t understand, Dean, you broke up on good terms. You said it was just the distance.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head, “Not _that_ , it’s recent. He hates me now.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Saw him before Thanksgiving, Sammy,” Dean says, “And he… I said we should talk, so it’s my dumbass fault, but he… he stayed over, left his goddamn key.”

“His key?”

“His _key_ ,” Dean says, stumbling over his words like it’s actually a relief to finally talk about all of this, rather than turn it over and over in his head and get nowhere because... “His key. To my apartment. He had a, he had a key before and he just… I woke up and he was just _gone_ and he left the key and I _called_ him to ask what the fuck that was supposed to mean but nothing, nada, till he calls me from the goddamn airport and he said we should talk and I… I should have told him where to stick it, but I -” He gestures, helpless. Sonny is back in the room and Dean’s still _spilling his goddamn feelings_ all over the shop, but these past few months have been as shitty as hell - like his world is imploding again - and even so he can’t say ‘I’m too in fucking love with him to draw a line under it’ to his little brother. 

“I know,” Sam says, “Hell, Dean, everyone who knows you _knows_.”

That’s not good information to have in his arsenal, but there’s not much he can do about that now. “So we were gonna _talk_ and then he’s yelling at me all this stuff and he, damnit Sam, he really hates me, and he aint wrong. I used him up ‘cause I’m a goddamn mess and I can’t handle shit on my own, so I put it on other people and I _break them_ and now I’ve got nowhere to go and I don’t,” Dean’s voice breaks and, fucking damnit, he’s _crying_ and he’s crying in front of Sam, which he’s never - he doesn’t do that. He does not do that. “I swear to you, I did every damn thing I had the power to do, but it… it doesn’t matter. It’s never _enough_. I’m _not_... I’m no good and I…”

He stops talking only because Sam has thrown his arms around his neck and is hugging him, tight, like he doesn’t believe Dean is a giant freaking waste of space and a crappy, shitty person who only ever manages to hurt the people he cares about. 

“Dean,” Sonny says, voice solid and calm, cutting through all the rest of it, “I’ve cleared it with Ellen for Sam to have an overnight family visitation tonight. Unless you’ve gotten any criminal convictions since May, she’s got everything she needs to process the information for the books.”

_Fuck_ , but Sonny is good. Despite all of it, Sonny is good.

“I, I don’t,” 

“Okay then,” Sonny says, “I’ll make up a bed for you and tomorrow we’ll come up with a plan.”

Dean’s chest caves in with relief. 

He doesn’t say a lot more that evening. Exhaustion hits him pretty much as soon as Sonny gives him the go ahead to stay, even if not a damn thing is resolved. He remembers Sam making a case for him to be back in their old room, but that’s a no go. He sleeps well for the first time in months and when he wakes up Sonny is in the middle of the plan.

By nine AM, he’s had breakfast and Sonny’s got him a place at a men’s hostel if worst comes to worst, even though Dean’s pretty sure he’d rather fork out the money for a motel over _that_. It’s an option, though, and it felt like he didn’t have a whole lot of options before. Sonny is calming enough that they start coming up with a plan: revisiting the loan idea, with a motel as a stop gap, using Sonny’s as an address; regrouping on the sofa surfing option to see if there’s anyone in his phone book he forgot to call. They do not reference the argument they had last time he was here. 

In the end, it’s Sam taking it upon himself to call Bobby that fixes everything.

Bobby drives out to Sonny’s and its _weird as fuck_ to have the Bobby as he now knows him - gruff and scruffy - mesh with the previous Principal-Singer as Sonny always knew him. Dean has to tell the whole damn story over again while Bobby drinks Sonny’s coffee in the kitchen of the nearest place he has to a home and it’s… it's _surreal_.

“Should’ve known there was something up when Rufus called me asking if you were in some kind of trouble,” Bobby says, eyes narrowed, “And I thought I’d made it damn clear that, something like this rolls around, you can _call me_. Least your idjit of a brother gets it. How much money you short on?”

“Four hundred,” Dean says, swallowing. He doesn’t even remotely like where this is going, but he ran out of options a couple hundred of miles back.

“And what does that get you, pray?”

He manages to find the place on the website. It’s a dive and Dean knows it and he knows when Bobby takes a look at the two pictures they put up and the address, that Bobby sure as hell ain’t gonna help him get that apartment. 

“So you’re talking about paying _more_ than you do already for some place that’s further away, that’s so damn depressin’ I wanna cry looking at it where they’ll be some schmuck selling crack outside your door every other day.”

“Well hey,” Dean says, “Least if this happens again I’ll know the best places to sell my body to drum up the cash.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but he’s still too raw from all of it to land properly. Instead, he just sounds like a scared, dumb kid who’d do just about anything to keep himself alive. 

“Like hell,” Bobby says, “Now if you’d _called me_ I could’ve told you my late wife never sold her damn apartment when we got married. Not a damn soul’s lived there since she passed, so it’s gonna need some work and it’s not fit for you living there long term, but if you need some _time_ , then…”

“Bobby,” Dean exhales, chest constricting. 

“Two hundred a month,” Bobby says, “And I need a week to get it habitable.”

“Bobby that’s… that’s too cheap. You can’t just -”

“- do I look like a pushover to you?” Bobby asks, “And save your thanks until we’ve finished negotiations, cause I ain’t done.” 

“Okay,”

“You do know those dunderheads Rufus employs get paid more than you,” Bobby says, eyes fixed on him, “And it aint because they’re smarter than you, or better looking, or better at their damn job, it’s cause they’re _qualified_. Walt’s got a whole damn degree in practical mechanics. Community college. You breeze through one evening and class and you get an automatic pay rise. Classes start in two weeks; make time.”

“Bobby,”

“And you aint moving into the first damn place that’ll take you, either, and getting stuck in the same trap of not being able to move. You said you wanted a two bed apartment closer to your damn brother and I reckon you can afford that, so that’s what you’re getting.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, even though he feels sick, “Okay.”

“It ain't gonna be fixed up for a week or so.”

“I can…. I can stay in a motel till then,” Dean says, “And I can _help_ , Bobby, I’ve got annual leave that Rufus keeps bugging me to take. I can - I can,” Dean continues, the relief beginning to sink through his bones, settling in his gut. “I can pay more. I can make it up to you. I can, _Bobby_ , I -”

“Quit your yammering, boy,” Bobby says, “You keep bitching about payin’ me back, the deals off.” 

“Okay,” Dean nods, grip tightening on Sonny’s coffee mugs.

Agreeing is a good decision.

*

_“And being homeless didn't give you the right to determine the entire course of our relationship without consulting me.”_

*

His nineteenth birthday isn’t a whole lot better than his eighteenth. He winds up having to spend it away from Sam out of practicality, as he finishes half-unpacking the rest of his crap into the shitty motel he’s staying at for the next week. At work, Rufus had pulled him into his office and chewed him out for not telling him the truth about the money situation before wishing him a happy birthday and Walt and Roy probably didn’t have a clue it _was_ his birthday in the first place. He’s just got off the phone with Sam (who says they’ll celebrate at the weekend, even if celebrating is the last thing Dean feels like doing right now, occasion be damned), when a text message rolls in from Castiel.

It just says _happy birthday, Dean_ and nothing else. Not a single reference to the fact that, last time Dean saw him, the guy yelled in face. There’s not one _jot_ about the goddamn mess that was Thanksgiving, or the fact that slept together, or the key. Dean sits back down on the bed to read over it again, but it’s no less opaque than it was the first time. He hasn’t got a fucking clue what Castiel _means_ or what he wants, or where the hell his head’s at. There’s no hints as to how he doing or where his head space is. Nothing. It’s more frustrating than nothing at all, which was at least a clear and consistent message.

Cas doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t _hate_ him, he just doesn’t have anything else to say but ‘happy birthday’. He does not hate him and he doesn’t even want out of Dean’s life altogether, or he wouldn’t have sent the message in the first place. A happy birthday text is _something_ , it’s just that Dean doesn’t know what the hell it’s supposed to mean.

He decides he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with it right at that second - his life is so fucking complicated and his head is way too full without him factoring in _Cas_ and the massive freaking complication that he is - and chucks his phone to the other side of the bed and grunts. He looks up a number to order the cheapest possible pizza instead, because he’s got no kitchen facilities for the next week and he’s not spending his birthday eating food out of a can even if he’s largely ignoring the day’s existence.

It’s still gnawing at him a couple of days later when things have settled down a little more. Every time he shuts his eyes he tries to come up with some other interpretation of what Cas could have meant by the message, or what Dean would like him to mean, and it’s - 

Dean’s not dumb enough to be surprised about how much he fucked up their relationship. He _knew_. He tried to push at it and get Castiel to talk. He tried to work him out, even, but Cas was always so goddamn resistant to any kind of difficult conversation if it was about himself. The _surprise_ was how little Cas’ magnetism had eased off in the months since he’d seen him last: the fact that seeing him still felt like being stabbed with how strong his feelings are, how it seemed so freaking inevitable for them to wind up tangled up in each other on his sofa, how much it felt like Castiel was ripping off all of his skin as he said those things. 

It was a surprise that it only took Cas a few months without him to suddenly be able to talk about how he really felt. That Cas was demonstrating every shitty truth he was throwing in Dean’s direction by virtue of actually saying it out loud. It was a _surprise_ how physical the weight of knowing how much he screwed it up was. 

He doesn’t want his not replying to Cas’ inane message to be the reason they never reopen the channels of communication. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants, or even what he was hoping before when he suggested they talk, but he _knows_ that he’s not done wanting something.

He types out a simple ‘thanks’ back in his lunch break.

He doesn’t get a reply.

*

_“Our relationship was about you and about your pain and your burdens and it was bad for me.”_

*

“You wanna tell me what's going on in your head, y’idjit?” Bobby asks, after they've settled into a rhythm of washing the crap out of everything in Bobby's late wife's old apartment. Bobby took a day to do all the sentimental stuff - although he’s still drawn out and gruffer than normal, he seems more or less okay - and now they're tackling the years of neglect and grime.

“That this vacuum cleaner is trying to kill me,” Dean spits out, even though he _knows_ that’s not what Bobby meant. 

“Let's start simple. Now I _know_ why you didn't tell your brother you were nearly out on your ass - that don't take a genius - but why didn't you tell Sonny?”

There’s no point avoiding talking about it. Bobby’s not gonna allow it. That argument was over the second Dean agreed to his proposition. 

“I was pissed as hell at Sonny,” Dean says, shoulders hunched over as he attacks the sofa with the vac, then a cloth. Bobby waits him out. “He has this stupid fucking rule about Christmas and visitations, ‘cause half the kids go home for Christmas and the others don't have freaking families, so it winds up sucking for the other kids if everyone else has got someone visiting, and I get it, I do. So he said that if I wanted to spend Christmas with Sam I had to clear him staying with me, ideally overnight, and I figured- I figured that I could talk Ellen into one night. She okayed my place for day visits but...” Dean's voice catches in the back of his throat on something painful and sharp, “But then my heating broke.”

It felt the same as it had in the moment he realised John Winchester wasn’t coming back. That someone had pulled the rug from under his feet and he was falling and falling with no goddamn idea _how far_ or _where_ and how many pieces he’d be in at the bottom. It was only one freaking Christmas - one damn day - but after Thanksgiving and _Cas_ and living for a month without an oven, it felt like he was losing his grip on everything.

“And obviously Ellen wouldn’t let - wouldn’t let Sam come over at all, because it was so cold, and I bought this dumb heater but that wasn’t enough… and I just didn’t want to spend Christmas freezing my balls off, alone, and -- you know that I’m officially one of Sonny’s volunteers, right? And he’s _always_ short of volunteers during the holidays so I figured, hey, I could just count as a volunteer rather than a _visitor_ and - ”

“ - And Sonny told you that plan wasn’t gonna work,” Bobby supplies, “Them’s the rules, Dean. He starts making exceptions…”

“I know,” Dean says, “Damnit, I _know_ but he - I was desperate, Bobby, and then I got mad, and I was yelling and… it was dumb, _I_ was dumb. And Sonny pulled the ‘Sam is my priority card’ and then he - he near enough threatened telling Ellen that I was being destructive and volatile and I just… I walked out before I could so something even dumber. I _wanted_ someone putting Sammy first, I just never figured that meant I’d be on trial every time I want to see my brother.”

That’s not all, obviously. _Sonny_ was one of the first people in his life to be an advocate for _Dean_. His Dad was always barking on about Dean looking after Sam so it was pretty clear where _his_ priorities lay, but Sonny… Sonny wanted what was best for _Dean_ in an on it itself. It’s selfish and crappy and unavoidable, but he - it feels a hell of a lot like a betrayal that Sonny isn’t prioritising Dean’s needs anymore. That he can’t. 

“You know Sonny’s bound with what he can and cannot do, boy.”

“I know,” Dean says, swallowing back the childish desire to blurt out _he used to be on my side_ because it’s not like Dean didn’t know that this was going to happen. He knew. “It just… sucks.” 

“Okay then,” Bobby says, narrowing his eyes him, “And I get from your snot nosed little brother that you had some domestic with Castiel and for some damn reason that translates to you cutting yourself off from your best friend?”

“Look,” Dean says, “I’ve done enough damage there, okay? It’s - I’m not talking to Gabriel about shit. The Milton’s need me to lose their goddamn number and move the hell on. Not an option.”

“Which leads me to askin’ why the hell you didn’t _call me_ at Christmas in the first damn place,” Bobby says, setting down the cloth he was scrubbing at the skirting boards to glare at him, orney and packed full of _care_. “You come round for dinner every damn Sunday and you don’t tell me _crap_ Winchester. Do I look like a ditchable prom date to you? Do I _look_ like I’m willin’ to let you freeze to death on your own in some apartment because you’ve decided to protect the world from your pain rather than tellin’ the people who give a damn that you’re struggling?”

“I,” Dean begins, then stops, his heart in his throat, “I didn’t know I was suppose to tell you.”

“Family don’t end with blood, son,” Bobby says, curt, then he picks up his cloth and keeps scrubbing.

He doesn't know how he became anyone’s _familyfamily_ is security and knowing that if you disappeared of the face of the earth at least somebody would look for you; safety and _home_ and it’s… it’s everything he’s been craving since the moment he realised that when he left school he’d be completely on his own with no instructions manual and no emergency reset button. 

Bobby called him _son_.

(Three days after he moves into Bobby’s wife’s apartment, he drives to Sonny’s in the evening and apologises for being such a freaking mess. He tells him he’s _sorry_ and the he gets it and that he’s glad that Sam has Sonny watching his back, even if it that includes watching Dean, too. Sonny gives him a moustached smile and tells him that he’s proud of him). 

*

February is much better than January.

*

The evening class is every bit as much of a breeze as Bobby said it would be. He walks away with a qualification in auto repair in six weeks with very minimal effort, by which point he's more than saved up the four hundred dollars he would have needed to get the shitty studio and secured a pay rise to boot. With Bobby only charging him two hundred for rent and the deposit on his old place back in his bank account, he's got way more options than he thought possible. He still wants to move, soon, cause Bobby’s wife's place has suffered from being empty for a long ass time and it feels a little like he's living in the shadow of Bobby’s worst memories, but he gets to go back to the estate agent - a different one - with the luxury of choice.

He picks a two bed place that's a straight bus ride away from Sam’s school and a nice fifteen minute run from work. It's a hundred dollars a month more expensive than his studio, but he'll make some of that up in gas money from driving Sam to and fro and the rest will swallow up his pay rise, which is fine. The landlord accepts his application by ringing him in person and he gets to move in two weeks after that. It takes some wrangling and a couple of damn good arguments, but part way through March Ellen rules that his apartment, and his temporary care, is fit for Sam to do overnight visitations (only on weekend nights and there's conditions and maximums and it all could change) and they agree to monthly meetings when they assess the situation and look at whether there’s any way that Sam can spend _more_ time with Dean. Dean winds up so happy he nearly cries.

Two days after that, a girl called Cassie comes into the garage with her dad's beat up truck that she's been using to drive to college. She's a journalism student, smart and hot as hell. She flirts with him shamelessly as he checks out her dad's truck and Dean thinks, fuck it, because he hasn't heard from Cas since his birthday, anyway, and his good mood is electric and he has nowhere to channel it.

She slips him his number and he calls her the same night. They get along. She makes him laugh. The whole thing is blissfully simple, at least at the beginning.

*

_“It was bad for my self esteem and my view of myself and my ability to cope and establish my identity and everything that I needed to do. You were bad for me.”_

*

It had been dumb to assume that Gabriel just wouldn't notice the fact that he'd been ignoring his messages since Christmas, he just didn't figure the guy would show up at the diner on one of his Saturday shifts and demand that they meet for breakfast. As it turns out, Gabriel doesn't hate him - on the face of it doesn’t seem to know anything _about_ Cas yelling at him about what a total, absolute fuck up he made of their relationship - and has been stalking out the diner for weeks in an attempt to pin him down, which brings a mixture of feeling like a shitty friend and relief. He has missed Gabe and it suddenly feels like he's had enough distance to be able to deal with seeing him again. For the first time in a long ass time, things are going well. 

He agrees to breakfast.

Somehow, despite his intentions, he winds up saying something dumb about the whole shit storm at Christmas. Gabriel lets him move the conversation on without comment for a while, then cocks his head half way through his fifth pancake and redirects them.

“Look, Deano, I got no idea what Cassie said to you, but I'm guessing it wasn’t pretty,” Gabriel says, with one of his more serious expression and a semi-familiar frown. Dean almost scoffs at that, because ‘wasn’t pretty’ is one of the biggest understatements of his life. Dean’s pretty sure that Cas’ voice inscribed every single word he threw at him straight onto his soul, as a character flaw there for anyone who looked closely enough. He’s not _oblivious_ to the fact that he shouldn’t be rolling those words around his head every damn night or the fact that it’s not _healthy_ that Cassie doesn’t know about his father leaving, about being temporarily homeless, about how close he is to losing his shit about forty percent of the time. He can’t reason, even internally, that those things aren’t related. “He’s been working through some stuff and - for what it’s worth - I don’t really think he’s mad at you and he sure as hell doesn’t hate you.”

“Right,” Dean smiles humorlessly, “It kind of felt like he was mad at me.” 

“Our _Cassie_ is hopelessly in love with you, Winchester, and it wasn’t you he was mad at. I’m not saying you didn’t fuck up -”

“ - hey,” Dean interjects, “I’m not trying to _say_ I didn’t screw everything up.”

_You were bad for me._

“He’s probably been beating himself up over whatever the hell it is he said to you,” Gabriel says, “ _But_ he’s doing better. Much better.” 

“He's, uh, he’s okay,” Dean says, levelly.

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, “He had us going for a minute there, but now - okay.”

“Is he still,” Dean says, then pauses, because there’s no reason why he should _want_ to know, except for the irresistible draw that Castiel has always had. He can tell himself that it’s because the concept of Cas having some friends with benefits type whatever just doesn’t fit his view of _Cas_ who’s so goddamn willing to let himself fall for people and who wears half his heart on his sleeve and the other half buried and locked away. He just can’t see _that_ being right for Cas. He’s not sure that he’s convinced himself it’s anything other than unreasonable jealousy. “There was some guy,” Dean finishes a little lamely.

Gabriel, apparently, can see right through his shit. 

“Mick the Brit,” Gabriel says, “Has been downgraded. Friends sans benefits. He's doing much better: eating his greens, going to therapy, checking in every few days to confirm he's alive like a good boy.”

His first emotion is relief, then a renewed craving to know _more_ about exactly what Gabriel means about all of it. He wants to know the significance of Cas going to therapy - whether it was a continuation of the appointments Hester used to insist upon - and _what_ he means about checking in every few days. Dean’s gotten better at crushing those feelings down, down, beneath all the mundane daily crap and it’s only _sometimes_ that he dwells on the fact that he thought Cas would text him again, after his birthday. That he really, really _wants_ to speak to Cas - to talk it out, to apologise, to explain, to give him a goddamn hug. 

He decided back on Christmas Day that from here on in he would follow Cas’ cue about everything. That _Cas_ should be the one to decide if they never speak again or if he wants to see him next time he’s in Lawrence, or if he wants them to be freaking pen pals. Dean’s fucked up those decisions enough times that it’s only fair and right that he just… relinquishes that responsibility completely. 

“Good,” Dean says, mouth slightly dry. “I don't hate him either and I’m… I’m not mad. I'm glad he's okay. If he asks - tell him that.”

“He hasn't asked,” Gabriel says, “Not for a long time. Before Christmas, sure, but now…”

“Well if he does,” Dean says, looking at his coffee, “I'm doing good.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, “I reckon you are.”

Two weeks slip pass, then he gets another from Castiel message through while he's leaning against the impala outside Cassie’s house, waiting for her to be ready for dinner. The text message is almost definitely something to do with Gabriel and just reads _‘I'm sorry‘._ It's easy to reply this time, because Dean’s sorry too: sorry that they didn't have that conversation this time last year when they were hot and heavy; sorry that Cas couldn't say any of that before; sorry that he was in such a bad headspace when they were together there was barely a chance for them to actually work it out.

Dean thumbs out a ‘me too’ to Castiel and sends it just before Cassie slips out the car to meet him. They kiss before she gets into the passenger's seat, filling the space with chatter until they get to the restaurant.

*

He debates it for a long time before he decides _fuck it_ and sends Cas a mirror text message back to Cas on his birthday. Technically, it screws up his ‘Cas-takes-the-lead’ plan by some interpretation of events, but he’s only meeting him message-per-message.

Anyway, he does want Cas to have a happy birthday. He really, really fucking wants Castiel to have the _best_ birthday.

Castiel’s reply comes just before midnight. It’s basically a big pile of _nothing_ \- just an innocuous ‘thank you, Dean’ - but then his message wasn’t exactly freaking profound. It still makes him smile at his phone like a total idiot before he remembers how they left things and that Dean’s got a _girlfriend_ and should probably stop indulging in his crappy feelings, even if he’s pretty certain they’re not shifting any time soon.

*

_“It has been… difficult, these past few months. I have - I have struggled and I… I missed you too much.”_

*

May comes with Sam’s fifteenth birthday and a relatively painless break-up with Cassie due to a cluster fuck of arguments relating to his perpetual mystery brokenness. He tells her a slither of some of the crap he's had going on this past year as a way of explanation and she decides she can't deal with the full Dean Winchester package of issues which just about fucking figures. He spends a few days in a crappy mood, but by the time he picks up some college chick at a bar and has a really awesome rebound one night stand he's over the whole thing, which probably means that he was never _that_ into it in the first place. Dean’s an asshole, apparently, which Sam takes great pleasure in pointing out over dinner during his first full weekend staying at Dean’s apartment. He is ‘emotionally unavailable’ and ‘a jerk’ and ‘needs to learn how to deal with his feelings’, but Dean’s too freaking pleased at having Sam leaving some of stuff in ‘his bedroom’ to be anything other than amused by Sam’s character assassination. 

*

“As I live and breathe,” Dean grins into his phone, “Charlie. How’s MIT?”

“Currently in my rearview mirror, bitches,” Charlie grins, “Touched down in Lawrence half an hour ago and, seriously, we need to talk.”

“We do, huh?”

“Oh yeah, Winchester, we need to talk,” Charlie says, “About Cas.”

“Charlie,” Dean exhales, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“He’s home for summer as from tomorrow, as I’m sure you’ve been going out of your mind wondering about and not asking. He _nearly_ went for Britain for the whole vacation period, but he deferred at the last moment to keep his Aunt happy. Point being - I’m thinking of a summer of reunion and hanging out with all my besties, _but_ word on grapevine is… you two aren’t talking.” 

“And by ‘grapevine’ you mean Cas told you,” Dean says, grimacing round his apartment, “That’s one way of putting it. Nice, Cas.”

“He didn’t say you weren’t talking. He _said_ that your last face-to-face meetings did not fill either of you with the warm and fuzzies. Look, Dean, I just want to know whether I have to only invite one of you to every social occasion this summer, or whether there is a _possibility_ of you extending an olive branch.”

Honestly, Dean has no fucking idea where they’re at at the moment. He figured that Cas _would_ be home, which filled him with an uneasy excitement diluted with dread, because…. Because, Dean would really, really like for them to be okay. He wants to talk to Cas about freaking all of it. He wants to say _I’m sorry_ in person rather than over a shitty text message and he wants them to establish what the hell they’re doing from here on in, whether it’s not talking again, or a half-friendship, or a wordless truce.

“Why am _I_ the one extending olive branches?” 

“Becauuuseee… you dumped him in the first place?” Charlie suggests, “Look, I talked to Cas last week. He doesn’t know where you stand with things.”

“He doesn’t know where _I_ stand with things? Really.” 

“Holy _crap_ , Dean. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“No,” Dean cuts across, shaking his head. _This_ is half of his problem, because he’s so damn emotional about Cas that the second it’s brought up he starts losing his head. “Damnit. Dial it back a second.. So you spoke to Cas and he sounded... Amenable to an olive branch?”

“Yes,”

“Does he - does he want me to call him?”

“Dean,” Charlie says, “Even if I _do_ invite you to separate social functions for the whole summer, you’re going to run into him. This town isn’t that big.”

“I wasn’t…” Dean begins, then trails off. He wants to call Cas. He wants to talk to him so, so bad, but he made a deal with himself. He _said_ that he would follow Cas’ lead. He _said_ that he would be whatever Cas wanted him to be to Cas. He can’t forget that just because the proximity problem is over for a few measly fucking weeks. “Do you…? You know how he is. Is me callin’ him gonna fuck things up for him?”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Charlie says, “I just know that he heavily hinted that if you _called him_ , he’d definitely call you back.”

_Castiel would call him back._

And yet, Dean is _bad_ for him. 

In the end, he spends another thirty minutes on the phone to Charlie before asking for the exact details of Cas’ flight, so that he can make damn sure that his phone call gets to him when he’s mid-air and rolls to voicemail. Even if that’s Dean putting a toe out of his original strategy, it’s still _up to Cas_ whether he ignores Dean’s sorry ass or calls him back to call a truce. He’s a goddamn coward dressing it up as trying to be understanding, but at least the ball is back in Cas’ court. It’s not like Dean can be trusted with that, at this point.

*

Castiel calls him back two days later. 

He calls when Dean’s sat with Sonny at Sam's end of year parents evening, in between seeing Sam’s English teacher and his algebra teacher. They’ve got ten minutes until they’re due in so their conversation is brief and mostly business, but goddamn amazing too. Cas sounds fucking _incredible_ and neither of them yell at each other, which Dean is taking as a win. It is damn good to hear Castiel's voice. It's all velvet rough and deep, warm and fucking gorgeous, and, yeah, Dean's not over him. He never really figured he was, it just didn't feel as pressing to deal with. The idea of him being in Lawrence for the whole summer is electric and terrifying, because, because - yeah, Dean is stupidly, impossibly in love with the guy, but he’s not sure he can forgive himself it he fucks it up again. _Cas_ who says ‘hello Dean’ like no time has passed and who makes the most Castiel-style jokes while they’re exchanging inane small talk is way too good for him. Dean hurt him. He doesn't get to do that twice. Three times. However many times Dean hurt him before he showed up at his apartment and yelled in his face.

The worst thing is that he can tell from the five minutes of conversation that Castiel isn’t over him, either. It’s all there in the way he says the word ‘Dean’ and the drawn out pauses and hesitations as he picks out the right words. Cas is still in love with him, most likely, but it sure as hell sounds like he doesn’t _want_ to be. Dean can’t bring himself to feel regret that Cas still cares. 

Charlie has invited them both to some party on Friday night. Dean’s pretty booked up with work (and rehashing this conversation over and over again until he turns into the world’s biggest mess and his brain turns to mush) and Cas needs to unpack and spend a few days getting over the hell that was finals, so they settle on talking _after_ Charlie’s shindig. 

Cas says he wants to see Dean’s new apartment. 

Dean’s pretty sure that’s a goddamn terrible idea, but he decided to follow Cas’ lead on this one a while back.

*

It’s goddamn _impossible_ and irritating as hell that nearly six months hasn’t made a damn bit of difference to the way his bottom drops out when Cas _looks at him_ like that. Cas’ intense stare hasn’t change one jot, even if everything else has; it’s still deep and blue and paralysing when it fixes him from halfway across the room at Charlie’s house, even though they have yet to exchange one single word. He looks, well, he looks... like _Cas_. Bed head, dressed way too smart but as scruffy as hell, them damnable baby blues. He walked in fifteen minutes ago and Dean’s been hyper-aware of every movement and expression that crosses across his own face since, because Cas is _right there_ and Cas knows him to his bones, to his _bone marrow_ and Dean -

Dean’s life hasn’t changed a whole lot since Cas left in the first place. It got crappier and then it got slightly better, but it amounts to the same thing. He works at the garage, and sometimes the diner, and he’s on a slow mission to get to see Sam as much as possible. He’s selfish and shitty and does whatever the hell it takes to survive. 

In the meantime, everything has changed for Cas.

Dean exhales and breaks Cas’ gaze to continue the conversation he’s having with Ash about some computer system that Dean doesn’t know a damn thing about. They _will_ talk this evening, but Dean’s not entirely sure he wants it to be with so many witnesses. 

They run into each other in the kitchen an hour and a half later. Cas _looks_ at him a little more, neither smiling or committing to a frown, before he settles way too fucking close for whatever it is they’re doing right now - _ex-boyfriends_ \- to get himself a beer. 

“Are we still talking this evening?” Cas asks and, fuck, Dean had forgotten about his goddamn voice.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, through the lump in his throat because _Cas_. Castiel. Cas. “Unless you don’t want to.”

He’s not sure he can really believe that Cas is here right now. 

“I want to,” Cas says, looking at him over his beer. His eyes skate over him in a way that Dean’s pretty sure is not acceptable in their post relationship-whatever, grazing the outline of his arms in his shoulders so intimately it almost feels like a physical touch, before back up to his face. Dean leans against the kitchen counter to watch Cas look at him. They have definitely kissed in this room before. And the front room. Out on Charlie’s driveway. “You look well.”

“You look, uh, smarter.”

“That would be the university education,” Cas says, cocking his head slightly and looking a little like he _wants_ to smile at him, but doesn’t quite give in to the impulse. “How are you, Dean?”

_That_ is a hell of a question. 

Dean’s fine. He’s been a fuckload of _fine_ since Cas left. He’s surviving. Sometimes he’s surviving by clinging on by the tips of his fingers, and sometimes his sanity is a little more secure. Some days he hates himself so goddamn much he can barely function and others he can justify all the stupid shit he pulls and almost, almost thinks he deserves to be able to build up his happiness. He is _okay_. He’s pretty damn far from anything beyond that, but then there’s a much bigger question about whether he should tell Cas any of this shit at all. 

_Our relationship was about you and about your pain and your burdens and it was bad for me._

Dorothy interrupts them both before he can answer. 

Cas watches him throughout the rest of their inane conversation about how Dean’s jobs going, but doesn’t approach him directly until everyone except Gabriel and Charlie have left. Dean winds up waiting out on the driveway as Cas has a heated-looking conversation with Gabe about something or other that Dean tries not to eavesdrop on, till Cas approaches the impala with his guard half-up and his expression unreadable. 

“Are you, uh, riding with me?”

“My car is with a friend who lives nearer New Haven than here,” Cas says, “I’ll get a cab home.” 

“I,” Dean begins, “Okay.”

They don’t talk until they’re through the door of Dean’s apartment. It’s a twenty minute drive, which is a pretty stellar exercise in seeing how much concentrated tension can build up in close proximity. Dean is painfully aware of Cas’ movements and expressions and nearly winces when he catches his eye in the mirror. It doesn’t help that they’ve fucked in the back of this car. It doesn’t _help_ that the extent of their conversation so far is them agreeing that they will _talk_ without getting into any of the specifics of it. Goddamnit. 

“You moved,” Cas eventually acknowledges, once they’re through his front door. Dean's so wired by just being in Cas’ presence that it takes him a few moments to actually hear what he's said then process that, oh yeah, he’s supposed to _answer_. 

“End of February,” Dean says, “My old place got condemned, so…”

“Your apartment was _condemned_?” Castiel asks, blue gaze piercing, assessing him. There's concern there, guilt, but all assembled behind some kind of wall. Dean has no fucking idea what that is supposed to mean.

“Yeah,” Dean says, shutting the door behind them with a click. 

They haven’t so much as touched at this point. It’s probably a good thing given their recent history.

“I hated that place,” Castiel says, with more venom and honesty than Dean was expecting. It shocks him into a half-laugh because _damn_ , no wonder Cas hated it. Most of the worst parts of their relationship happened in that hell hole of an apartment. It sucked.

“Me fucking too, Cas,” Dean says, “You free of the hell-roommate?”

“I - yes,” Cas says, “Although Bartholomew was agreeable in the end.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Cas repeats back to him, absorbing his apartment, taking it upon himself to walk around the expanse of his sitting room, gaze briefly settling on the sofa. Dean tries very hard not to think about the two of them twisted under Dean's throw on his old sofa, but he’d bet good money that Cas is thinking of the same thing. “You have two bedrooms.”

“It’s… it’s so Sam can stay.”

“And Gabriel said you did a course in mechanics at community college?”

“ _Gabe_ has a big mouth.”

“You’re doing well.” Castiel says, turning back to look at him intently, brow furrowed.

“I’m… I got no complaints,” Dean says, even if that’s a half-truth. It’s near enough the truth. Everything is less pressingly shitty at least. “Except for the fact that Sam is dating _Ruby_. Guess it was goddamn inevitable, but I thought we were done with her.”

“The girl who was involved in your brother being arrested for underaged drinking?”

“Bingo,” Dean says, “How are… how are _you_ , Cas?”

“Better than when we last spoke,” Cas says, which tells him both a lot and nothing at all.

“When are you… when are you back in Yale?” 

_That_ is the question that’s been keeping him awake since Charlie’s phone call. Knowing Cas is a fifteen minute drive from his house (thirteen minutes exactly) is an exquisite kind of torture, especially when he’s trapped wondering what he’s thinking and what he wants and what’s the least destructive thing Dean could do about all their damn feelings.

“Classes don’t begin until the last week in August,”

“That’s,” Dean begins, then has to pause to stiffel his reaction, which is a mixture of hope and _something_ that’s probably inadvisable. He doesn’t get to be excited about Cas being around for weeks and weeks and weeks, because he’s still going to leave and because they still haven’t talked about a damn thing. “That’s a long frigging way away Cas.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to acknowledge those words at all. He just narrows his eyes like he’s trying to dig out the meaning of Dean’s words by the power of his gaze alone. His eyes are either undressing him or dissecting him; gaze skimming the collar of his shirt, the strip of skin above his jeans that would be visible if he lifted his arms above his head, the cut of his jeans. That just leaves Dean to keep this conversation being a conversation and not… not anything else.

“So you - you have good friends at Yale?”

“Yes,” 

“And your classes are good?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “Our pro-con list was certainly correct about the amount of choice. I have… I have missed Kansas,” Cas continues, gaze electric, “Gabriel. Hester.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, chest tightening, heart speeding up a little, “I get that.” 

“There is ‘no place like home’ or so I’m told.”

“You’re a dork,” Dean smiles. Cas is… adorable, amazing, way too fucking good. “You gonna miss Yale too though, I bet.”

“I am going to be exceedingly bored,” 

“And your friends.”

“Yes, I will miss them. Yale is... simpler.”

“And, uh, are you… seeing anyone?” Dean asks, his throat tightening around the words. If they’re going to do this, though, this… _friendship_ or at least not this no-man’s-land of text messages on special occasions and then a fat load of nothing, or _this_ when they're something only when Cas is here, he needs to know what he’s signing up to deal with. He needs to _know_ so he can work out how to fucking deal with it.

“No,” Castiel says, and _that_ settles over them for a long time. Cas is here until the end of August. He’s _here_ and he’s not seeing anyone and he’s still fucking beautiful, with his hair and his eyes and the way he holds his limbs, strong and awkward, with all these waves of hidden power. 

“I think I’d like a tour of your apartment.” Cas says, breaking the silence. 

“There’s like five rooms,” Dean says, “It’s a pretty short tour, dude.”

“Still,” Cas says, nodding towards the nearest door, “Is this your kitchen?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, forcing himself into motion and opening the door. “Got a microwave, cupboards, fridge, oven; all the luxuries.”

Cas moves to follow him then settles so far into his personal space that he can feel the heat radiating off him in the doorway. He’s changed shampoo, or something, because he smells different. Still good, but different. 

“And does your oven work?” Cas asks, the picture of innocence as he stops peering into Dean’s kitchen to look at him.

“This landlord is distinctly _not_ a total fucking asshole, so yeah, my oven works,” Dean says, gesturing, stepping back into his living-room/dining room/ whatever the hell other functions Dean needs. “This is my living room which you’ve seen and then…”

“This is Sam’s room,” Cas says, stepping past the door to look, absorb, smile. Dean’s been calling it _Sam’s room_ in his head since he moved in, and has been referencing it that way out loud, cautiously, for the past two months. “Your brother must like staying here.”

“Well, I’m not _six_ and I don’t cry if the cartoons get turned off, so it turns out I’m a better housemate than any of the rest of his. Bathroom,” Dean says, opening the next door. Cas pulls his close-leaning trick again, his breath hot on Dean’s collarbone whenever he exhales. Goddamnit. “It’s … a bathroom.”

“It looks very functional,” Cas says, before stepping through the final door, “Which makes this..?”

“My bedroom,” Dean says, mouth slightly dry as he follows Cas in.

The door swings shut behind him.

“So, uh,” Dean says, because Cas is stood too close, inspecting the pictures of Sam and his Mom that sit on his bedside table. “You, uh,” He stops completely, because Cas turns around but moves no further away, _looking straight at him_ with an expression Dean’s pretty damn sure that he recognises from a couple of dozen times before. “It’s good to… good to see you.”

“Gabriel said that you were dating someone called Cassie,” Cas says, eyes fixed on Dean’s mouth.

“No that was, done, over. Weeks ago,” Dean blurts out, lacking in grace or dignity because… _Castiel_.

“And you are not ‘seeing anyone’ else?”

“No,”

Instead of an half-innocent hug or a accidental arm brush or _whatever_ , the first time Cas touches him is entirely purposeful. He reaches forward and rests a hand on his cheek, eyes flicking across his face to drink in every reaction. 

“I missed you too Dean,”

“Yeah I… I,” Dean stops short, swallows, “I’m really glad Charlie talked me into calling you.”

It’s an inane shitty thing to say, but Cas doesn’t react to the words at all. 

“Hm,” Cas says, moving imperceptibly closer.

“Cas,” Dean croaks out, “Is this - is this a good idea?”

“On balance,” Cas says, voice _lower_ , “No.” 

It’s the best bad idea they’ve ever had.

*

“Cas,” Dean breathes into his shoulder, eyes slammed shut, arms wrapped around him. “Don’t… _please_ don’t bail on me again. I really - we need to talk. Actually talk.”

“In the morning, Dean,” Cas says, sleep rough, close, there.

Dean wants to demand a promise that he will stick it out for the length of this conversation, this time, but he’s not sure he can deal with the aftermath however that goes down. He shifts slightly to pull the covers up around them and press a kiss into the back of Cas’ neck and hopes, hopes, hope that Cas will stick around instead.

*

He wakes up and Cas is _still there_. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, as Dean blinks himself awake and turns over in a panic before the relief washes over him. Cas. He has _time_ , this time, because Cas is here for months. Until the end of August. Cas hasn’t disappeared into thin air and no one’s started yelling, yet, which means that _Dean has some time_ to fix this. He’s got no freaking idea what that looks like (he’s not really sure what he wants, except that he _wants_ ), but even the possibility of resolution is more than he’s had since December.

“You’re here,” Dean says, sitting up dumbly.

“Descartes would lead me to believe so,” Cas says, which makes no freaking sense, but Dean will take it.

“You got time today?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I think so.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, leaning back against the wall and shutting his eyes again, half asleep but content. Cas. “M’ not working till Monday so that works.”

“You still work both of your jobs?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says through a yawn, forcing himself to open his eyes again and locate whatever he, or they, did with his clothes last night. “You want coffee?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “And _that_ is a bad idea.” 

“Huh,” Dean exhales, standing up and pulling on a pair of boxers, before honing in on yesterday’s jeans. “You’ve been here two minutes and you’re already giving me a hard time. Damn, I’ve missed you.”

“I think it was deeply unfair of you to wear those jeans yesterday,” Cas says, lying back down and pulling Dean’s pillow towards him. “ _Deeply_ unfair.”

“Noted,” Dean says, holding back the very strong desire to smile, “You, uh, you haven’t changed your coffee order?”

“No,”

“Awesome,” Dean says, leaving the door half open as he heads for the coffee machine, his head foggy from finally getting a good rest for the first time in months. Damn.

He’s about to call a _so you like these jeans, huh?_ at his bedroom door, when a door scrapes in the lock and then _Sam_ walks into his freaking apartment.

“Sam,” Dean says dumbly, blinking as Sam walks right into the kitchen where he’s stood and yawns. 

“Hey,” Sam says, heading immediately for the coffee pot that Dean’s _just_ put on.

“You,” Dean says, as Sam gets himself a mug and thrusts it in Dean’s direction. “You’re in my apartment.”

“Good observation, Dean,”

“It’s _early_.”

“It’s really not that early,” Sam says, which Dean highly doubts. He’s got no idea where his cell phone is and nothing else in his apartment actually tells the time, but it sure _feels_ early.

“Didn’t you finish school like last week? Aren’t you supposed to be… sleeping or something.”

“ _Here’s a key, Sammy. Use it whenever you want, Sammy. My place is _your_ place, Sammy,_ ” Sam says in a freaking terrible impression of Dean’s voice. “I needed to talk to you, but maybe I should wait until the caffeine defrosts your brain.”

“It’s early,” Dean says, waving a finger in his direction, “And you’re _loud_.”

“I’ll make the coffee,” Sam says, with an eye roll. “How was your date with Robin?”

This morning is not going well.

“You show up here at the ass crack of dawn to ask about Robin?” Dean asks, “Pretty damn sure I told you that wasn’t a thing. I didn’t even know the busses _ran_ this early.”

“Why? Robin’s nice.”

“Then _you_ date her,” Dean mutters, taking his coffee and glancing back his bedroom door because _shit_. “She’s fine, Sam, I’m just not interested, which is what I told you I was gonna tell her on Wednesday. Whatever. Is that the only thing you’ve been sitting on?”

“No,” Sam says, as he hands him a coffee and turns on the puppy dog eyes, “But you’re… you’re going to be mad at me.”

“Sam,” Dean exhales, “Now really isn’t a good time for a talk.” 

“Why?”

“Because,” Dean says, trying to come up with something that isn’t _because Cas is in my fucking bed_ but is saved the effort of coming up with an excuse by Cas himself stepping out of his damn bedroom (fully dressed, thank fuck).

“Dean,” Cas says, “I’m going to go.”

Sam chokes on his goddamn coffee. 

“I,” Dean begins, glancing between them, chest clenching, “Okay, but… can we talk for two minutes, first?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,”

“Sam, can you just… go in the kitchen a minute,” Dean says, eyes fixed on Cas. 

“Uh, Sure,” Sam says, taking his coffee back into the kitchen and shutting the door behind.

“Dean,” Cas says, “I need to leave. I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t tell Hester or Gabriel where I am -”

“ - you’re an adult, Cas.”

“ - they will _worry_ ,” Cas says, voice flooding with something that Dean hasn’t heard in his voice all that often. He’s not sure quite how to place it, except that he doesn’t like it.

“One problem: you don’t have a car.”

“I will ask Gabriel to pick me up,” 

“But you - we said we were gonna talk.”

“Dean,”

“If this is because Sam said something dumb about _Robin_ , then… she’s some chick who volunteers at Sonny’s. It’s not -”

“ - _Dean_. This was a bad idea.”

“Pretty sure we agreed that before we did it.”

“I thought that I knew what was I doing this time. I thought that there had been sufficient _distance_ , but then you are _you_ and I’m impossibly attracted to you and you were wearing those jeans and I haven’t slept with anyone for months and you are _so_ …” 

“So you’re sexually frustrated and I was there?”

“Dean,” Cas punches out, “This always happens. Every time we say we are going to _talk_ we do not talk. Do you think that we can keep doing _this_ until the end of August, then restart this cycle for another academic year? Do you think this is advisable?” 

“I mean _talk_ , damnit,” Dean says, “I meant _talk_ every time.”

“And yet,”

“Coffee,” Dean says, “Let’s go for coffee. You can jerk off before and I promise not invite you back over here because I -- I really want to talk to you, Cas. There was so much crap you said last time I saw you that I… you mean way too goddamn much to me for us to leave it like that, Cas. We have to talk about it. I _need_ to talk to you about it.” 

Cas narrows his eyes at him for a few long moments, tension stored in his shoulders in spades, his phone clutched in his left hand. His shirt is buttoned up wrong and his hair is a disaster and it’s _infuriating_ how little power Dean has over how in love with him he is. 

“When?”

“Wednesday,” Dean exhales, “I’m working a half day ‘cause I have this appointment. Three PM?”

“Okay,” Cas says, “I will see you on Wednesday.”

“Okay.”

“Just to be clear,” Cas pauses in the doorway, turning back to face him with an acute deadpan, “I will not be masturbating before hand.”

“Yeah I was pretty _not_ serious about that.”

“I know,” Cas says, smiles for a brief, shining second, before, shutting the door behind him.

Sam emerges from the kitchen a few moments later looking appropriately pissy about the whole goddamn thing.

“So I guess _Cas_ is home for summer?”

“Don’t tell Ellen I had someone over when you were here,” Dean mutters, retrieving his coffee from the coffee table and slumping on the sofa, “She’ll flip out. Or Sonny. Seriously, Sammy. It could screw up our whole thing.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “Why did you let me ramble on about _Robin_?”

“Hey, I didn’t exactly issue an invitation for you to do that,” Dean throws back irritably, “How much of that did you hear?”

“Uh,” Sam says, “All of it?”

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean mutters into the sofa.

* 

Wednesday does not go to plan. 

He’s distracted as hell at work for obvious reasons, which means that he allows Walt to drag him into his shit just because he’s feeling petulant and Walt is as good of a target as any for him to take out his frustrations (it’s a mutual thing by this point; they’re more or less friends, even if Walt is a douchebag a lot of the time). Walt’s telling some woman whose got caught up in some crash that her car’s a total write-off and Dean’s the asshole who just _has_ to interject.

“It’s _fixable_ ,” Dean cuts in, even though he’s pretty much done for the day, “It’ll just cost more than the car’s worth.”

“No way, Winchester,” Walt says, “This car’s walking scrap-metal.”

“Yeah and if we can get it to be _driving_ scrap-metal, then that’s a goddamn car.”

“Bet you two hundred dollars you can’t fix it.”

“You - could you do that?” The woman asks, blinking at him. She’s visibly upset and, damnit, Dean’s not sure what kind of mental breakdown he’d be having if some meat-head told him his Baby was unsalvageable.

“She got sentimental value?” Dean asks, drinking the mess of crushed metal, “Cause fixing her’ll cost more than that what your insurance will pay out. I’m talking in parts alone, then there’s labour costs. You’re better off starting over, which is what my ass of a colleague was _trying_ to say.”

“It’s,” The woman says, “The car belong to my late husband and he…” She trails off, blinks rapidly. Damnit.

“Well, I can cost it up for you. Knock of two hundred given this dunderhead’s coughing up the rest, then you can work what you wanna do.”

“But you can fix it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Reckon so. I’ll need to take a proper look to work out how much of the engine’s gonna need to be replaced, but its…”

“Personally, I’m unconvinced,” Walt cuts in, “But if _Dean_ here says he ‘reckons so’ then…”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshat?” Dean butts in, “Some cars aint just a way to get from A to B.”

“Not _everyone_ ’s in a relationship with their vehicle, kid.”

“The impala outfront is mine,” Dean says to the lady, “She used to belong to my dad, so I get it.” 

“Our Dean is sensitive,”

“Shut your mouth, Walt,”

“Well I really _really_ appreciate it,” The woman says, smiling at both of them like their interactions are kind of amusing now she’s got _some_ assurance that he car isn’t shot to hell. “Really.”

“See _Walt_ ,” Dean says, “She _really_ appreciates it.” 

“Winchester,” Rufus says, stepping out on the floor to give him a look, “Don’t you got somewhere to be?”

It’s _then_ that it hits him that he already clocked off his shift by technicality and that he should have left to get to Ellen’s office twenty minutes ago. He changes shirt in the front of his baby when he’s parked outside her office building (because, despite the fact that Ellen has seen him at his worst, their whole power dynamic has changed since then; he’s counting on making a good impression on Ellen and showing up stinking of engine grease never felt like the way to do it), before rushing upstairs and signing in at reception. He made him five minutes of time, but he’s still fifteen minutes late - first time ever - and it isn’t tell his walked into her office, mid apology, that he realises that Sonny _and_ Sam are here. 

He’d been expected their standing meeting where they chatted about Sam’s welfare for twenty minutes before Ellen concluded that he could either have _more_ opportunity to see Sam, or the same, except he’s totally fucking wrong, because apparently Sam went to a party with Ruby and got in a goddamn _fight_ and now he’s not allowed to stay with Dean, at all. 

Dean does not exactly take it well.

“Sam acting out doesn't have a damn thing to do with him staying with me sometimes, it has to do with Sam hanging out with _Ruby_ which I'm pretty freaking sure I told you all was a bad idea over a year ago.”

“Dean, disruption to routine is - “

“- staying with me isn't disrupting his routine,” Dean snaps, “Sam _staying with Sonny_ is the massive goddamn disruption to his routine. He's my brother. He's supposed to be in my care.”

“Dean,” Sonny says, a warning wrapped up in concern, because he is not helping things right now. Mouthing off at Ellen has never gotten him anything good, it's just damn hard to be able to see this as 'what's best for Sam' when Sam _loves_ staying with him. Sonny can make him more level headed though, which is probably why Sonny is actually _here_ today, and Dean sucks in a breath and tries to translate that to him actually having more oxygen in his lung, and then tries to convince himself that he is _not_ going to use to yell at anyone.

“Look. I get it. I _get_ that this is way things have gotta be, but things were getting better -”

“- Sam's grades -” 

“- his _grades_ are fine.”

“They have slipped.”

“So he's in the top ten percent of students rather than the top five percent. Sam's smart. He's going to whatever damn hell college he's got picked out. Sam is fine.”

“Sam _isn't going to be able_ to go to college if he gets into fights. We all want what's best for Sam.”

“Yeah? Then why didn't you listen to me and ban him from seeing this Ruby chick in the first instance?” Dean demands, voice tipping over into _too loud_ again.

“Dean,” Sam starts.

“No, you keep your mouth shut,” Dean interjects, “I'm pissed at you. What the hell were you thinking, Sam? You know the rules. You know this stuff has consequences. That you would _consider_ screwing up your future over some dumb fight. A _fight_ , Sam. You don't do that. You don't _jeopardize_ our contact time and your record and your life over a girl - and definitely not Ruby.”

“It wasn’t _like that_ , Dean, she -”

“- And why the hell didn’t you tell me about this? Before _right now_ , so I wasn’t blindsighted in this stupid goddamn -”

“ - I tried to talk to you on Saturday,” Sam cuts across him, his own voice heating up now, “I _tried_ , but you were so caught up in Castiel that - “

“ - that is _bullshit_ , Sammy. I do everything for you. Every single thing in my life is centered around what is _best for you_ , so you don’t get to accuse me of not puttin’ you first. You don’t get to use that excuse. No way. I’m busting my ass working two jobs so I can put you through college and jumping through every damn hoop so that can stay with me and -”

“ - I didn’t ask you to do that, Dean! No one asked you to do that.”

“All I’m _asking_ is that you don’t get into goddamn fights.”

“Whatever, Dean. _You_ got into fights all the time.”

“And I am _not you_ ,” Dean cuts across, final, way too _loud_ for them to be arguing about this in Ellen’s freaking office, with Sonny _sat_ there. Sam squares his jaw, angry and petulant like he always used to be with their Dad, and stares at a spot above Dean’s shoulder. It’s in the silence before any of them can start yelling again that his phone rings. He digs it out of pocket to reject that call when he suddenly realises the time and that fact that their meeting has overrun by _forty minutes_. 

It’s Castiel calling, fucking obviously, and Dean’s already twenty minutes later for their coffee not-date.

“I have to go,” Dean says, standing up because he’s _done_ with this whole piece of shit meeting, anyway. Neither Ellen or Sonny are going to shift their positions and he’s too mad at Sam to think straight right now. Anything he says at this point is just hurting his case, so he needs to - he needs to get out of there and he needs to _answer_ the call from Castiel before the guy walks out on their meetup and never speaks to him again.

“Dean,” Sam says, voice angry and hot.

“I’ll call you later, Sam,” Dean says, hitting _answer_ on Castiel’s call as he half-slams his way through the door. Dean’s a goddamn _idiot_ and Ellen is going to have his ass so hard, but he doesn’t care right now. Right now his anger has blotted out any other feelings he probably has about it, so he needs to wait until he’s had a chance to calm down before dealing with any of this crap. “Cas,” Dean exhales, as he hastily heads out of the building and heads to the parking lot, “I am really freaking sorry. I’m on my way right now.” 

“I wondered whether you were ‘giving me a taste of my own medicine’.”

That says a helluvalot about the state of their relationship right now and not in a good way. 

“No way,” Dean says, “I had this meeting with Ellen and it overran, but -”

“- Ellen? Your social worker?”

“Well, Sam inherited her, but pretty much.”

“Is Sam okay?”

“Yes, it’s - you know what, this is the exact opposite of what we need to talk about right now. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m buying your coffee.”

“I already paid for my coffee,” Cas returns, which is the most painfully _Cas_ thing to say and Dean really wishes they were doing this any day other than right now because - 

Because there is no way in hell that Ellen is going to sign a damn thing to say that he’s a suitable temporary guardian after he yelled at Sam in her office. No fucking way. 

“Okay, well, get another one. Ten minutes, Castiel.”

In the end, it takes him fifteen minutes, which makes him a whole thirty five minutes late to attempt to apologise which just about tops off his shitty, shitty day. His chest aches when he walks in and see Cas sat there with his two goddamn coffees and a book and it hits Dean once again that he’s the world’s biggest asshole. _Goddamnit_ , but Castiel has always been way, way too fucking good for him.

“Hey,” Dean says, sitting down opposite him and nearly drowning in the odd tension mixed with relief and affection and frustration that happens whenever he looks at Cas in the eye. Not once inch of his feelings for him have shifted but, then again, Dean hasn’t exactly tried hard in that regard. He just accepted the facts, even if he’s not able to acknowledge them out loud.

“You look stressed,”

“Well _hello_ to you to, Cas,” Dean says, then breathes out and reminds himself _not_ to act like a colossal douchebag, “I - sorry I’m late. This day is apparently on a personal mission to screw me.”

“What happened with Ellen?” Cas asks, forehead crumpled in concern, “Is everything okay with your brother?”

“No, but its… You know what? It’s not important. It’s nothin’ you need to worry about,” Dean says, as Castiel’s expression tightens slightly and, yeah, Dean is fucking this whole thing up big time. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” Dean says, leaning forward, “I wanted to do this whole damn thing so I could _apologise_ for being a self-absorbed asshat and starting that by whining about Sam seems a little counterproductive. I’m gonna… order coffee and then we, uh, start over? Pretend that I just walked in.” 

Cas inclines his head slightly and nods. 

“Hey,” Dean says, when he sits down opposite him, heavily, after getting himself a filter coffee and picking up their tab. He’s had about three minutes to get his head back in the game which probably wouldn't be enough if he wasn’t an expert compartmentaliser.

“Hello Dean,”

Considering that this whole thing was his idea, Dean doesn’t have a damn clue where to start.

“I don’t regret sleeping with you,” Castiel says after a few moments of them looking each other, which is _a_ start, if not the one he would have gone for. “I realise it may have seemed that way from what I said before I left on Saturday, and the previous interactions. It _was_... regrettable, but I do not regret it.” 

That shouldn’t make any sense, but he sort of gets it.

“I get pretty blindsighted when it comes to Sam,” Dean says, quiet.

“You told me this before we were involved.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But hearing it and living it are different. It wasn’t supposed to hurt you. None of it, none of it was supposed to hurt you.”

“I don’t regret _you_ , Dean.”

“But I was bad for you,” Dean says, though it’s difficult to get the words out of his windpipe, “I _hurt_ you, Cas. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I am not blameless in this, Dean. You _tried_.”

“Not hard enough,” Dean says, “You _know_ I didn’t try hard enough, Cas, but I - there was some much going on, in my head and with school and my Dad and _Sam_. I was just surviving but I - I should have not put that on you. You didn’t _deserve_ to be relegated to my emotional crutch, Cas. I should not have depended on you like that.”

“I wanted you to,” Cas returns, tilting his head slightly. “Not that I am absolving you, Dean, but… as you said, we both had ‘too much’ going on.” 

“What else,” Dean says, “What else did I do that hurt you, Cas? I gotta know because I… I didn’t always know and I never wanna do that to you again. To anyone.” 

“You said you didn’t need me,” Cas says, “You said that you would be okay without me. That… that was not _good_ to hear.”

“Cas, it wasn’t like that. It was - you were going to Yale, Cas, and I couldn’t have you a thousand miles away worrying about me like you were. You cared _so goddamn much_ and you always answered when I called and you always came through for me. Of course I _needed you_ , I just couldn’t need you when you weren’t gonna be there. I had to… I had to be okay without you because that’s what was going to happen. I wanted - I wanted you not to worry about me.”

“Our breakup did not seem inevitable to me at the time,” Cas says, looking down at his coffee, “I understand now. You were right about that. You were right about a number of things, but… you should have known I didn’t think that it had to happen.”

“You wouldn’t talk to me about it,” Dean say, voice low, “You just wouldn’t _talk to me_.”

“I know,” Cas says, frowning, “I think our breakup was good for me, long term.” He pauses a moment then glances upwards to meet Dean’s eye, “That was not supposed to sound insulting.”

“Its okay,” Dean says, smiles, but it’s a bitter one. 

“I just mean that… it was cumulation of our breakup and moving to Yale that finally made me deal with my father leaving.”

“And that’s it. You dealt with it?”

“I believe so,” Cas says, “I have met my brother and my niece.”

“Good,” Dean says, “You deserve to be happy.”

“I am,” Cas says, looking at him carefully, “I believe the term is ‘no harm, no foul’ so I think we’re fine.”

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “It wasn’t _fine_. You shouldn’t…. Shouldn’t be letting me off the hook.”

“I upset you too, Dean,” Cas counters, “I left the key to your apartment on your bedside table and ran away. I ignored your calls. I said awful things to you. I am not absolved of my mistakes, either, Dean. I was _wrong_ to allow the chaos of my emotions result in my directly trying to hurt you.”

“You got a text from some guy you were fully entitled to sleep with in front of me and I had a goddamn spite-one night stand, Cas.”

“I did _bail_ on you. I understand why you were upset. I can’t condone your way of dealing with it, but…”

“I may have figured us ending was inevitable, but I never wanted it to end bad.”

“I know that, Dean,” Cas says, then pauses with his fingers stilled on the ring of his cup, “Did you love me? I know that it is small of me, but I would… I’d like to know.” Dean freezes with his coffee halfway to his mouth. Cas’ expression folds in on itself and it feels like someone’s dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt but it - he can’t. He can’t _talk_ about that. “Oh.”

“I, I can’t talk about this. That. I’m _sorry_ , but I don’t - I don’t use that word.”

“You don’t use the word ‘love’,” Cas says, brow furrowed. It looks like he’s about to launch into _something_ or other, or point out that he’s said he loves his car, or burgers before but he - he’s only been okay with using the word in his own fucking head for a few months, he’s not about to launch into saying it out loud. Not to Cas’ face. Not _now_.

“Cas,” Dean says, pained, “Please. Drop it.”

Cas looks at him for a long few moments. 

“What was your meeting with Ellen about?”

“It’s uh, basically a long term negotiation about where and when Sam can stay with me. Today was… not a good meeting,” Dean says, waving this away, “Is Anna home for summer? Gabe mentioned a month back that she’d been ill, or something.”

“She’s coming home for a few weeks,” Cas says, “I like Anna. We write letters to each other.”

“Huh. Pen pals.”

“Dean,” Cas sighs, looking down at his coffee again, “I have a minimal understanding of how this works. What are we doing here?”

“Uh, drinking coffee?”

“In our _relationship_.”

“No, I got it,” Dean says, taking a sip of his coffee to stall, “I _hear you_ when you say we can’t keep fooling around but it… I don’t want to not talk to you, Cas. You’re _here_ and neither of us hate each other and neither of us have yelled yet so maybe… maybe we could be friends.”

“Friends?” Cas asks, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Catch up over coffee and dinner and nowhere near a bed, or a sofa.”

“Friends,” Cas says again, his voice settled, an almost smile.

“Friends,” Dean repeats.

The rest of their coffee is good. There’s a sticky moment in the parking lot when they’re saying goodbye where Cas nearly kisses him before he remembers himself, but Dean figures that’s just teething problems. They’ll work it out. They’ll get there and friendship is a helluva lot better than nothing. It’s good. The only good news he’s had in months.

*

Four days later, Gabriel invites him over to play some computer game and order pizza and it sounds like a pretty awesome way to while away the rest of his Sunday after pulling a double shift at the diner and depositing all of his tips straight into Sam’s college fund to make a point, if only to himself. He could use a mindless break and it’s not like he could afford to own that kind of crap himself, and he misses Gabriel. Now that the crap between him and Cas is sorted, maybe their friendship will be purer and less convoluted. Easier for him to navigate emotionally knowing that Gabe speaks to Cas at least three times a week. 

There’s the chance that he might run into Cas, too, which sounds pretty great right about now. Maybe he could suggest they get dinner at some point next week, or something, because they never pinned down a concrete plan. He wants to know about Meg and meeting Jimmy and Mick. He wants to know why Cas was in therapy and what, exactly, was going through his head around Christmas time. 

There’s no sign of him when he gets to the Milton’s place, though. He doesn’t mention it for the first hour of them exploding aliens and Dean bitching about work and _not_ Sam, even if they’re not actually speaking right now (they’ve exchanged text messages, cause Dean’s not about to just _not talk_ to Sam entirely, but it’s not great. It’s not _good_.)

“Is Cas in?” Dean asks, in a tone that he’s pretty sure could classify as _casual_ , if Gabe wasn’t sandwiched in the middle of the context of all of it. Dean’s probably never been ‘casual’ about Cas. Right from their first conversation, it was serious. 

Gabriel pauses the video game, his expression suddenly stripped of his usual humour. 

“He didn’t tell you,” Gabriel says, then to himself, “Dick move, Cassie.”

“Didn’t tell me _what_?” Dean asks, turning to look at him, stomach sinking, “Gabe.”

“Cassie… had a change of plan, about summer. He’s on route to Meg right now and they’re both going to rainy old England to hang out with your buddy _Mick_. He left yesterday.”

“He left,” Dean repeats, heart stalled in his chest, stuttering as he turns his internal engine over to try and process what Gabriel just said. Cas, Castiel, has gone. “He left _again_.” 

“Yeah, he probably should have told you,” Gabriel says, standing up, “Do you want a soda with the massive overreaction you’re about to have?”

“He just fucking _left_?” Dean asks, anger rising to the surface, building up in his stomach because he… they _talked_ and they agreed they were gonna be friends. It was good. It was the most amount their relationship had made sense for a damn year. It was -- they were _okay_ and then he just ups and leaves with no goddamn word. Not even a fucking _text_. It felt like they had a _chance_ and then -

Cas always seems to manage to surprise him with this shit.

“You know what,” Dean says, standing up, “I’m _done_. I am through with this whole thing… I’ve got enough crap going on in my life without spending my time agonising over every damn thing he says, waiting for the other shoe to drop and him to _disappear_ , again. I am out. I’m out.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, his voice forcefully light, with none of the bite removed, “You ever think maybe Castiel knew that and that’s _why_ he left?” 

“I cannot believe him,” Dean says and -goddamnit - he needs to get a grip on his temper, again, because Hester is there and they don’t need him talking crap about Castiel. They’re always going to be on Cas’ side, as they should be, it’s just - 

“You know, we wanted him home this summer _too_.” 

“- you can tell him I’m done,” Dean says, grabbing his car keys and his cell phone, “Tell him to delete my number. Tell me _whatever_ , but I’m _done_. I’m done.” 

“Oh screw you Whinechester,” Gabriel says, “Castiel doesn’t owe you shit. He’s protecting himself.”

“From _me_?” Dean demands, then his rage gets stuck in the back of his throat, and he accidentally meets Hester’s eyes. 

Hester, who let him sleep in Anna’s spare room for months and who hugged him after she discovered the truth, who accepted him dating her nephew despite all the emotional crap Cas was dealing with, and filled his apartment with food the week he moved in, _that Hester_ is looking at him like she doesn’t know who he is. She’s angry at him, too, as she purposefully keeps her mouth shut and relegated herself from the conversations, but he can see that she is pissed. He can _see_ that she is just barely containing her motherly fury to avoid interjecting. 

It’s that, more than anything, that drives him to leave with nothing further but a _’fine'_. 

*

A week later, Dean gets a call from a police officer less than a hundred miles away who found his details of the missing persons they put out on John Winchester previously, and somehow managed to get his new cell phone details. He says that they understand that he is John Winchester’s next of kin before he tells him that John Winchester was killed in a hit and run three days ago under circumstances that they consider to be ‘suspicious’. Dean gets the call just as he is finishing work. It is left to him to tell the rest of John’s friends and family - which is just _Sam_ \- and they would like his assistance in their enquires when he’s ready to do so.

He hasn’t spoken to Sam for two weeks after their stupid argument. He hasn’t heard anything from Cas. He hasn’t spoken a word to Gabriel since he walked out on that conversation. He hasn’t called Sonny to apologise or rescheduled his appointment with Ellen. He’d already been hauled up in his apartment dealing with the rest of it and his defences really weren’t ready for another direct hit. 

Dean drives to Bobby’s salvage yard with an impossibly steady grip on the wheel. 

Bobby finds him parked outside his house thirty five minutes later clutching the steering wheel on the impala, at the beginning of the worst mental breakdown of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate it! Please accept this offering of angst as my gift to you and all mind kind.
> 
> Disclaimer: please note parts of this chapter were written whilst my family were napping off their Christmas dinner and generally making lots of mess in my house.
> 
> Further disclaimer: i mentioned in the beginning that I was unsure about the point of view change. As you hopefully (heh) worked out in the 15k mega-chapter that just landed, I swapped within the thing and also engaged in that thing I usually dislike where the same scene/bit is retold from two point of views. I thought it made sense here, though, and THIS kind of thing will continue in.... the NEXT PART. Which will be landing in a few days time given the first chapter is basically written.
> 
> Long may the angst continue!
> 
> This is the quickest I've ever written a story this length, I think. The damn thing has basically rendered me incapable of sleep ever since I decided to write it as it keeps plaguing me. Very irritating.


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